Harry Potter and the Destruction of Magic
by SurrealSteamPuck
Summary: The world of magic that we know is one the only one; Harry is about to find himself opened to strange magics and new allies. The walls of Magic will be broken down, and the survivors will be left to pick up the pieces of their shattered world. Read & r pR
1. Chapter 1

_It's hard, sometimes, to think about others before we think about ourselves. It's hard to differentiate between the now and the future, before the now has left and past us behind. What's harder is to do the right thing for the other person, no matter how hard it is on us now and then. The point of all of this -_

"Mum," his daughter screamed and Dan Granger's hands shook from the keyboard, his body cringing in recoil from the angry and frustration within that voice. Hermione had been home for three days and that was all it took for his wife and daughter to be on each others nerves. Like mother, like daughter. He saved his file and turned off the computer, stepping away for a moment until the chaos and the yelling ended.

The study was his Fortress of Solitude, where he keep all his little memories from a previous life. Where he stored his books, his ideas, himself, away from his family, so when he left his study, he could be the father he was, not the man he used to be. Turning off the only light in the room, an oil lamp, he walked away from the black oak desk, runes covered almost every inch of it. His feet flowed across the ground, and as he left, a point on the floor glowed briefly, so much so that he didn't even notice.

"Daddy!" A bushy-haired bullet shot down the hallway and hugged him as closed the door. Despite having finished her fourth year at her school, Hermione still was enamored with her father, though the shine was disappearing. He was a knight after all... when she wasn't thinking of her other knight and worrying about him. Her hugs weren't as tight anymore, and often she would disappear into her room to write a letter for her other knight, letters that she would rarely send. Though, Emma was more upset about their daughter's crush than he was. Maybe because he had accepted a long time ago that one could not help who they loved. His eyes meet his wife's and knew that this was one fight that his daughter was going to lose, as he could not fight her wishes.

"What seems to be the problem, pumpkin?" He stepped back from her and looked down at the tears that had stained his daughter's face. She had started to try make-up last year, nothing extravagant but enough that he could see the lines where the tears were falling. Emma was so proud when Hermione wanted to go buy make-up last year. It wasn't that they weren't proud before, hallway was filled with awards that she had won: music, spelling bees, dance, even an odd art one every once in a while. Hermione's greatest power was her focus. He had seen her sit and read entire collection of books simply because she was focused enough to sit and read and memorize.

"I want her to see our doctor." Emma spoke, pleading with her eyes. Dan nodded and looked back at Hermione.

"I don't need to go," Hermione pleaded. "I'm perfectly fine. Madam Pomfrey gives the Muggle-Born-"

"You know I dislike that term, pumpkin," Dan said. Hermione just shrugged and continued.

"An exam each year we come back. I don't see the point-"

"Are wizards always healthy?" Emma asked.

"No, but-"

"Do they have to deal with the same illnesses as we do?"

"No, though-"

"Then what is the argument? Our doctor will give you just a basic exam. No worries. In out in twenty, and then lunch afterwords."

"I talked with Madame Pomfrey, she said everything was alright, no worries-"

"Well, just to be on the safe side, I'm sure it won't be trouble to-"

"I'm fine. I'm healthy, there is nothing wrong with me." The Granger stubborn gene came from Emma, he swore, not that he could ever say that to her face. He wanted to glare at her, tell her she was being stupid, his daughter or his wife or both of them, but that would only make the situation worse.

"We're not saying that there is anything wrong with you, but rather its just a precautionary move." Emma said, though repeated would make more sense. Dan could tell that this was the exact same argument they were having in the hallway. "I'm sure we could find a doctor to go to in the magical world as well if that is your worry. Its important to cover your bases Hermione. And you haven't had a physical in quite some time."

"Three years." Hermione didn't look up when she added the information.

"Three years it is then; so you can see why this is important." It had been four years since Hermione had entered the wizarding world, and the past three had really changed their little girl. Something dreadful occurred last year, and if was obvious for Dan to notice, then something was terrible wrong.

"Okay, well, Mum has presented her points, so what is your argument?" Dan asked. He stood up and looked down at Hermione. She was slowly growing up, standing at a five feet six inches. At his full height, he stood well above her and his wife. Hermione remained quiet, and shuffled her feet, her eyes staring at the biege carpet of their second floor. "Do you have an argument? Anything to say against it?"

"I don't want to?" she said. Emma smirked at Dan and Hermione, enjoying her victory, it seemed. But no one ever said Hermione was anything but stubborn. "Please don't make me go." Dan was shocked to hear the voice of his daughter, a voice he had not heard in three years. The quiet scared little girl he knew for most of her life until she left for that godawful school, away from him and her mother. Emma walked to her daughter and knelt down, taking the place of Dan. She wrapped Hermione in a hug and held her tight. Dan took a step back. Consoling his daughter when she was angry was one thing, when she was about to cry, completely different and a topic to be feared. "Please, mum."

"I don't understand." Dan looked at his daughter as though he would a book, something to be read and analyzed. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. His daughter was brave and brazen almost, willing to charge into anything. The last doctor's appointment three years ago led to the most questions about health he had ever heard, cumulative, and he was dentist for Christs' sake. They had a shelf filled with medical books, some journals even from Hermione' curiosity. No something had changed, and he would figure it out, quickly and effectively for the sake of his family.

"Just please, please don't make me go." A flash of dark light and he knew that there was a problem, one that stemmed from a spell cast upon his daughter.

"Honey your health is very impor-"

"Please?" Hermione practically screamed into her mother's shoulder and a vase exploded down the hall. "please, don't make me go, I'm begging you. I-I-I-" A wave of his hand and Hermione feel asleep.

"Daniel, you swore-" She was shocked at her husbands blatant disregard for his own rules. Even he was acting in the best interests of his daughter.

"I swore first and foremost that I would protect my family." He said as he rushed to his daughter, who was limp in Emma's arms. "Even if that means from themselves." His hand glowed, or more specifically the pentagram that was burned into his palm glowed bright purple, as he whispered in a forgotten tongue. Emma smiled despite her worries, and even Hermione's face slowly turned into a smile as peaceful dreams danced in her head. "No, someone has infected our daughter."

"Infected?" He recognized the spell work from years ago, a spell that removed or altered a part of the mind for the betterment of the caster. It was a wand spell. If he could spit he would.

"For lack of a better term, honey." The colors changed form purple to white, and he lowered his hand onto Hermione's forehead. "Her mind was being altered, by a wanded-one. I don't know who, but it was powerful, and advanced. This was no minor spell, but strong one connected to her cognitive skills, designed to make her fear or distrust, or maybe even the opposite, I don't know who-"

"Doctors?" Emma added and petted back Hermione's hair. The static in the air was making her daughter's hair frizz up, as was hers.

"No, not doctors. Something else. I can't figure it out from the spell, but something is missing, something that was important to pumpkin." The pentagram changed from white to blue, and Dan's hand started to shake. He was worried as he read over the spell that had been cast. It had been years since he even tried something like this, and he was never a healer, certainly not a mind one. His power was in destruction, or more precisely, removal of obstacles in his way. Could he convince his magic that this was simply an obstacle in this argument?

"Do we need my floor?" Emma was worried and rightfully so. Between them, he was unsure if he could help his daughter. This was needed to be done now, the repair might take his wife's powers, but not now. Now was simply a battle of wills. Dan's versus his magic.

"No, here should be fine." His eyes flared blue and his entire hand glowed. If he was paying attention to anything other than his daughter, he would have seen Emma's hair floating up. He would have seen a red spark jump across the room from outlet to outlet. His chanted his mantra over and over. _begone... begone... begone... begone... begone... begone... _as his hand remained millimeters from Hermione's forehead. He didn't hear his wife softly speak, her words, well word, was long and fast, perfect in every syllable and pronunciation. He didn't see her eyes change into gold, and light erupt from her mouth. Dan Granger didn't see any of this. He was simply focused on helping his daughter.

_begone, begone, begone, begone begone begone begone -_

A shadow stretched out from Hermione's mouth, grasping at the air. Emma jerked back, dropping her daughter into Dan's arms. This was not the world she knew, and it frightened her. Rightfully so. The world was dark. Much darker than Hermione knew, than Emma realized, than Dan faced. The shadow formed into a hand and pulled itself out of the open mouth, gripping her lower jaw and pressing down. Dan prayed he didn't hear popping or the breaking of bone as the hand pulled a shoulder out and then another shoulder and finally with both out, wiggled a smaller arm of his daughter. No head was visible. As the shadow pulled its chest out, two faint outlines of eyelids of a single large eye was center on the shadow. With a sloppy plop, two stubby feet appeared and standing on his daughter's face was this creature of darkness.

And it opened its eye.

Dan stared at the creature with equal fervor and power, his eyes returning the empty glare the shadow gave him out of single bloodshot eye. A staring contest of masters. and all Dan could do was chant under his breath: BEGONE! the final word was followed by an explosion of the creature, the shadow covering the walls and disappearing into the air.

For a moment, all Dan and Emma could do was breathe. The problem was Hermione wasn't.

******

"You're daughter breathing on her own now," the doctor said. "Her heart rate is stable and everything else seems to be in order." A glance over his shoulder to the bushy-haired girl lying on the hospital bed showed his lack of concern. "She's a very lucky girl." The doctor was short, and the balding head reflected the light well, probably shined with shoe polish. His white medical coat was spotless but his shirt beneath it was smeared with what looked like mustard.

"Clearly," Emma replied, her eyes not moving from her daughter. They brought her quickly to hospital, one where a doctor was an old colleague of Dan's. Sadly, he wasn't on duty to play deus ex machina at the moment, so a random pediatrician took over their semi-catatonic daughter. "Can we go in?"

"Certainly," the man continued, looking down at his watch. "Shall I assume that you will be staying with her?"

"Of course," Dan said as he walked right past the man, leaving Emma to deal with the fool. The only reason why they had brought Hermione to this hospital was Dr. Stephens, a...man from the Old Days. And the old bastard wasn't available, whatever that meant. He didn't care about these useless doctors who believed they understood what had happen to his daughter, who said that it was simply a nervous breakdown from something. Dan and Emma did nothing to alleviate that thought, simply because it was easier to explain the danger that had finally past. There would be answers to come, he was sure of it, by his hand or someone else's. His left hand glowed slightly before he hid it within his jacket.

His daughter was not dead, and it wasn't the machines that told him this, the quiet beeping of the heart and the silent sizzle of a monitor. It wasn't the slow and methodical up and down motion of her chest, the deep breathes his daughter gave to the world and took away. No, the color of her cheeks, the soft rose that was never there before, the smoothness that he could see him here, the color, the life, that was within his daughter that was not within her for the past three years. She was alive and well, but was she the Hermione who learned the magic. Would she be happy? Normal? Safe? He couldn't protect his family all that well against a wanded-one, whose flexibility was the greatest advantage. And the power... the power that this one specific wanded-one-

"Dan?" His wife's voice and gentle hand on his shoulder awoke him from his revelry.

"You've never seen anything like this?" It wasn't an accusation, but Dan needed to know. The Warrior within him, the one he quieted for the past fourteen years, needed to know.

"There is a sect that summons and binds..." she started. "But no, in all my research, I have yet to see anything like this. Whatever happened to Hermione...what did happen?"

Dan shrugged. "You know how strange the wanded magic can be, not straight forward like your words or my spells. No... what happened tonight is something new and as dark-"

"As the day is long?" A low and dull voice said behind them. If Dan wasn't paying attention, he probably would have forgotten that something had even been said. Emma would never forget though.

"Geoff..." The venom was strong in her voice. Dan knew his wife was pronouncing the name of his old colleague correctly, unlike most of them who simply just called the man Geoff because it was as close as they could to pronounce the name. Standing behind them in a black medical coat, button tightly and a stethoscope hanging from his neck, was an unsupposing...man. He held only a black cane, with a silver curved hook at the top, one he did not use for support. Dan never remember what Dr. Stephens looked like, only that it was average. He felt the air drop around him, not temperature, but become harder, his breathes became labored but nevertheless his eyes did not turn away from Dr. Geoff Stephens. One who did rarely was better for it.

"Emmanis-"

"I no longer go by that name!" She shouted and a breathe of light sparked for a moment from her mouth. "I will not tarnish myself with that name."

"Easy, Em's." Dan's turn to calm down his partner. Years had past since they had seen the old...man, but time hadn't affected him at all. "Dr. Stephens is here for Hermione."

"Yes, I remember..." He walked into the room right past the parents, and straight over the to the sleeping girl. "You're excuse for leaving." He placed his bag that wasn't there before down and took a seat next to Hermione, and proceeded to give her a routine check: temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, magic levels, divinity rating, Spes Ferre Test, etc. Routine.

"My reason, Dr." Dan replied. Emma remained rooted in her spot in the doorway, while Dan ventured into the room. He stood as far away from the...man as possible, yet still near his daughter.

"That is what I said, no?" Dr. Stephens listened to her heart for a moment. "Up on the sixth floor, laying in room 652, and hopefully still breathing, is a..." Dr. Stephens shuffled his instruments in his bag, which was probably why there was a pause, Dan hoped. "Child whom I believe would interest you."

"The only child whom interests me-" Emma started, but a hand from the doctor silenced her.

"Not you, woman. Dan'el. He would be the one who should take a look-"

"I stand by my wife's statement." Prior to leaving the Order, Dan was part of the many people who sought out and dealt with new recruits, both for their side and others. That was only thing that Stephens would believe would interest him, especially since his daughter had become his purpose in his new life.

"As I was saying before I was _rudely_ interrupted," Dr. Stephens paused again, but his eyes stayed on Hermione. "He would be the one who takes a look as payment."

Dan sighed. This was not going to be fun, pretty, or even prosperous in the least. The last time Dr. Stephens had requested payment for something, Dan left without the use of his right arm for almost six months and barely walking. Probably was the reason why it was also the last time they had seen the old...man. "Fine."

"Dan?"

"I have no real choice," Dan replied, looking at his stationary wife. "Not if we want answers for what happened to our daughter." Emma glared at her husband but a brief and almost non-existent look toward her daughter was all he needed to know that she had accepted. he would in be trouble later with her, but she had accepted it.

"652, you said, correct?" No response from the doctor so Dan assumed that the number was correct.

The journey to the room was worthless and quiet, and Dan preferred not to dwell on it. Just as his thoughts preferred not to dwell on the task at hand. The doctor mentioned nothing more than to check on the boy, one who would interest him. Sadly, given Dan's focus on his daughter, there wasn't much that interested him at ...the...moment.

He halted about three doors down from 652. The floor was empty, the air stale and dry, the lights flickering. Thunder cracked outside, and for a moment, Dan was sure he was alone as the darkness left the hallway. A nurse bustled in and out of rooms, fast paced, focused on their tasks. So some other patients were here. Then why the - Another crack and the lightning appeared to shatter the glass of the window far down the hall. The room was the only one lit at this hour, and no nurse entered the room, and no one exited. As all the other lights drifted from on off, on off, on off, that remained constant. Dan walked down the hall, gliding around a nurse who rushed past him, and stood in the door way, trying to understand why he was sent here.

Lying on the bed, with a large gauze covering his bare chest, a tube coming out of his throat, and the soft gentle beating of a machine signifying the heart was still working, was a boy no older than Hermione, he hoped. The cast on the arm and the multiple bruises across his body were not good signs. He grabbed the chart on the end of the bed and pulled the curtain around them, leaving the boy and Dan alone in solitude as he over looked the chart.

_Harry Potter? _he read. _The boy who Hermione is always on about? What is he-_ his eyes scanning the rest of the medical chart, every drug given and every choice made, every cut. There was a chart even with a scale of Harry's body that showed all the scars, and Dear God! He closed the page and turned away, throwing it away to a spare chair.

"Dear boy, what did they do to you?" He stood next to Harry's bed and placed a hand on the child's forehead. He was too thin for a boy his age and much too short. His hair was shaggy and wild, though that might be from the surgery and moving him around. Just as Dan went to move, to figure out why Dr. Stephens had sent him here, Harry's hand shot out and grabbed hands holding him still. His eyelids burst open and powerful green eyes stared at the older man. "I understand." He barely spoke, as if the words refused to leave his throat.

When a child is born, for a single moment before the child opens its eyes, sometimes there is a chance for the divinity of good and evil to take possession of said child and curse or bless, depending on who took possession. After that brief possession, the child is destined for very great things. Very great. This was not the case with Harry. Sometimes, a child is born with the heritage of the divinity, back to the first. That child is destined for very great things. That was not the case with Harry, either. Neither he subject standard possession nor selling of his soul. No, with Harry, the problem came from the simple fact that sometimes, when person is tired and angry and frustrated, and her husband or wife in the stranger cases, was something...more, that something born from the union more grew up, and was for lack of a better term, human, though divine in the same moment. Harry wasn't normal that was for certain, but his curse and his blessing Dan had seen enough in the bodies of other men and women, other children, to know how strange and wonderful and terrifying it was.

Especially since what he was seeing was impossible. Hidden beneath the emerald gaze of this boy, behind the eyes and skin, was the darkest power he found in his travels. There was no real gift that allowed a person to see what was there, only an understanding and the knowledge that if you look in the right way through the right mindset at the right time, you could tell. This child may appear to be human, but he shouldn't be. Not by the level of power he was producing.

"Do you know his parentage?" he asked to the...man who appeared in thin air behind him. Dr. Stephens took a step forward into the room, across from Dan, next to Harry. Harry shifted closer to Dan, away from the other...man. Dan took Harry's hand and held it tightly, trying to give strength to the frightened boy. Whatever brought Harry here, the horror would not end tonight.

"Pity, he is still breathing," Dr. Stephen said. He put his bag upon the ground and hung his cane on a machine next to him, balancing the straight hook to hold it up. The silver reflected the light well from the room. "I have figured out that his father is not a full devil. However, even you who has lost your touch can see what I see. See what he is, is he not?"

"A Hell's child?" Dan asked, but looked at Harry. "But he hasn't the marking of-" This boy should be one of the few who were born from a family of power, of great, terrible power. There was nothing, however, to support that statement. Harry's parents were normal, wanders for sure, but normal, weren't they? None of his research indicated that James or Lily Potter were anything but human.

"A half, I know. This is a lineage thing, not a parentage, though from those I met before," Dr. Stephens reached into his coat for something. "they would called the first Father." He removed a scalpel and Harry was helpless to watch what would follow, at least his body was. His eyes glared, no longer afraid, though, daring the man to try.

He didn't think, he didn't even realize what he had done until it was over. Dan reached across the bed and pulled Dr. Stephens by his lapels, throwing him against the outer wall, placing himself between the kind doctor and the wounded boy. "You will not harm him." He swore an oath after Hermione's birth, after the birth of his angel, to never allow that decision to occur again. Never to prejudge them again. Harry Potter was a good kid from Hermione's stories, if they were true. And if not, Dan prayed he had enough power to stop the child should he ever cross that line. But he was a child nevertheless and no child deserved that fate because of some bigoted fool.

"He is a devil," Dr. Stephens said, fixing his coat, and brushing himself off. "You know the law."

"I left, Geoff. I left because of that law."

"Yes, I know of your sympathies."

"I will not kill an innocent child."

"There is nothing innocent about them."

"Good or evil is not decided at birth. There is no such thing as Fate, as Destiny."

"You're words, not mine, Dan'el." Dan growled, and picked the old...man up again, holding him off the ground and leaving his feet the dangle beneath him. Harry watched helpless as the light vanished from the room, sinking into Dan as he summoned the energy to do what he had to. "If you continue this... fight, Dan'el, you're family will die."

"You stay the fuck away from my family, you f'-" Dan was thrown across the room, shattering the outer wall. Thankfully, his momentum died just after hitting the wall, landing on the inside of the room, rather than outside with the rubble six floors down.

"Dan'el, Dan'el, Dan'el." Dr. Stephens glided across the floor, grabbing his cane, his staff, his scythe before reaching the fallen man. "You seem to believe that this is a simple fight that you could win. I am the oldest because I have survived. This child should die because that is the way, not because it is good or evil. When will you see that? These concepts you humans like: Good, Evil, Right, Wrong. They don't exist. They are all just figments of your imagination. In the end, there is only what needs to be done to maintain the balance. The more of his kind that finds their way into the world, the more danger the world is in. You saw that once. What happened? When did you get soft?"

"I will not...murder... children, Stephens..." Dan was breathing hard. Dr. Stephens was doing something, hardening the air. He had seen it once before during an interrogation, and the man's lungs collapsed on themselves, crushed by a boulder the mortician said. Between the throw and now the deadening air, he was in trouble. He tried mutter his mantra, but words would not come out. His mind, unfocused. _begon...e, beg...one, b...ego...ne..._

"It isn't murder if they aren't human." He leaned forward and stared through his black glasses, for which Dan was grateful the...man never took them off. There were so many stories, no facts, for a reason. Dr. Geoff Stephens, a pseudonym of the nth degree, had lived a long and blood-filled life. He was always part of the Order, from the beginning until the end. And there was a reason for his survival: he was the strongest of them. "I hoped that you would see that, Dan'el. You were one of the best and brightest. What happened?" Dan stuttered, trying to fight back, but his arms were tired, his legs refused to move. "Shhh, don't speak." _be...gon...e, be...go...ne...b...e...gon...e_ " It'll be over soon. Then, after I clean up this little... accident... I will attend to your family down stairs. Pity to kill a daughter of Eve." _b...e...g...ooooooo_ "You will be with them shor-" A metal bar was sticking of the Stephens' chest, along with various pieces of meaty flesh and bone, and well... something else that Dan could see.

He gasped as his lungs started to work again. "Oi, wanker." A voice said, and Dr. Stephens stared at the broken metal jutting from him. "Over your dead body." Dan could see, he could barely move, but he heard a boy's voice, a kid no older than his daughter. Where did he come from, how was he not effective against-

Dr. Stephens' laughter interrupted the thought. "You really think that a silly metal bar would kill me."

The kid snorted. "No," he replied. "But it was enough for you to stop paying attention to where I was." Dr. Stephen twisted around to see a fist coming toward him. Dan watched as Harry Potter, the boy who had just came out of major surgery from a knife wound nicking his right ventricle along with countless other injuries, punched an immortal man hard enough to go through the wall and out into the rain below.

For a moment, Dan couldn't believe his eyes. It wasn't his magic that saved him; he couldn't even summon the words to control his magic. The lack of oxygen left his brain all confused and muddled, and here Harry stood up from his wound and went toe-to-toe with one of the Dominions in the world. Harry stood probably shy of five eight, and was incredibly thin, emaciated almost. Yet he stood as though he were the caped crusader himself, threatening a villain with a mere glance. Which was interesting because he was wearing a hospital gown. His eyes, bright green, shown and almost glowed with a terrible power threatening to break out. "You need to go, Mr. Granger."

"Harry, I don't know-" No halfie, no Hell's Child, could have done what Harry did. A full demon or devil would have been hard pressed. It was impossible. In all his years as an Order member, he had learned that it was strictly impossible for a halfie do to that.

"Dan!" Emma's voice broke what ever held him down. She rushed over and hugged him tightly. "Dear God, what happened here."

"Mum? Dad?" Hermione's voice came from the hallway. What was she doing up and moving? Little before, his daughter was lying asleep, recovering from whatever had been done to her. It would be moments before she entered the room and saw the aftermath. Then the questions would start. Dan hurried to his feet and practically ran to the door, hoping to stop Hermione from entering. A vice-like grip on his arm stopped him.

"Mr. Granger," Harry said, staring into his eyes. The depths of the green sun were amazing, blinding even. Harry's eyes no longer had pupils, iris, or anything, there were just green orbs of power. Bright. Alive. Green. Good. Wrong. "Dan, you need to go."

"Harry, I-I-I" he stammered, and Harry just smirked. The room was calm again, silent. Had the rain stopped, why wasn't his wife asking questions-

"You can preform a summoning ritual, right?"

"Emma can."

"What do I need to summon part of someone that has died?" An odd question, but answerable. Heard stranger from back home.

"A holy relic, or part of one. Any religion, though preferable one that the deceased was part of."

"My parents were Catholic. Any suggestions?" Hermione would be coming in here any moment and Harry was asking these pointless questions.

"Shroud of Turin would work."

"All of it."

"No, well, maybe. In theory, just a square inch would work. We have the rest at my home." This was a casual conversation on a Sunday. Harry nodded.

"Thank you." With another smirk, Harry turned and started at a run and followed Dr. Stephens out into the pouring rain. Rain? Hadn't it stopped?

"Dan!" Emma hugged him tightly just as his daughter, dressed and ready to go, entered the room. "You're alright." Thunder sounded outside, and the lights within the room flickered like the rest.

"Dad?" Hermione asked, standing in the door way. "What happened here?" She took in the room, the chaos, the destruction, and her father standing confused.

"I honestly," Dan replied. "don't know." He looked out the hole in the wall where Harry had left. The hole that was gone, and all the damage oblivated from the room. Only thing of Harry's that remained was the medical chart on the chair he discarded. "I honestly don't have the slightest clue what just happened." He looked at Emma and frowned. "And that frightens me."

Author's Note: This is a pseudo-sequel to a previous story I wrote and finished rather abruptly. But in truth, I am exploring the simply fact that magic is a lot more than just what the wizarding world offers. It has to be. Its the same understanding that various religions can come to the same result through different methods, or that science has countless ways of analyzing a problem in different fields that often look to produce the same thing. Magic is. This is undeniable. So the story then comes to how does a person respond to the world of magic as it is, now, constantly in flux.

_I start with Hermione and her view in the fact that she is the most logic and in a way accepting of change than anyone else. Harry is the catalyst so to start with him is a bit awkward but nevertheless this is a story about Harry and his trials and tribulations. _

_I will also explore various "holy" ideas of fanfiction, things that we accept to be true without question, one of which is prophecy and how the characters respond. I will also be looking at how various characters respond to others, how people grow in a natural and fluid manner, including all pitfalls and faults. I want this to be as real as possible, so please give feedback on how a character is acting. _

_Standard disclaimer applied, please enjoy. _


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

It had been a week since the incident at the hospital, and the Granger family was slowly recovering from the whole ordeal, though normal would not apply. Dan bruised his ribs and was still struggling to take in full breathes after what Dr. Stephens did to him. He was unable to work his practice for the entire time, his weak lungs a problem and the hacking cough made the detailed work of a mouth difficult. Not that he was complaining, as he could stay in his study, researching what occurred, attempting to figure out all that had happened, including just what Dr. Stephens did to help Hermione. Despite the pain he was in, Hermione knew her father was more upset about her.

Whatever a wizard did to her, it left Hermione missing large chucks of her memory, of her life. The past three years were blurs with some very beautiful stills. The way her parents acted it was as if she had come back from the grave. Her mum said that had their daughter back, the one who left for Hogwarts her second year, alive and smiling all the time, in love with life and the act of living. Not the daughter who returned, morose and tired, sleeping most days if she wasn't reading book after book, trying to live through the fictional tales of the page. The only parts she could remember involved Harry Potter, a boy who was integral in her life, so thankfully she could remember some, if not most of her life. These memories were singular moments in time and space that were merely snapshots of the entire movie she'd missed, telling a brief and tragic tale but never a whole one.

Currently, Hermione was laying on her couch, reading through her diaries of the past two years, trying to find the rest of the puzzle. She wrote in a majestic scrawl and at least this Hermione, the one on the page, wrote down everything and anything that occurred, still focused on Harry, despite how hard this fictional Hermione tried not to. She could almost hear the stone floor as her feet slapped against it, running towards Harry, almost tackling him because he had figured out the clue to save the school, and she was just happy to see him. It was her first memory after the basilisk and honestly, her diaries didn't go much into her summer between her second and third year, besides some panicky entries about Harry and one Sirius Black. She was speed-reading through her third year for the fourth, trying to understand all this about the time travel and her keeping the days straight. She remembered the flight with Buckbeak and how she pulled herself as tight as she could to Harry, for warmth and pleasure, apparently, something her fictional self was unhappy about. Unfortunately, no matter what she read, she couldn't remember anything else. Just those select moments of her and Harry.

Her diaries only said so much, especially since they barely mentioned Ron, though when they did, it was rarely good. Her third year had her fighting with the childish boy for most of it, first over Scabbers then him driving a wedge between Harry and her over a stupid broom. It was heartbreaking to learn that she acted without Harry's permission on his broom, and then to find out in her fourth year, this boy who she didn't even know took her to the some dance, while her friends completely forgot her. Her diaries were filled with small dried tear stains at that point and she could almost see when she closed her eyes, her walking down the stairs with this unknown boy. Everyone in the memory had faces that were older of people she remembered, just slight enough that she could recognized, but their features were blurred compared to the green-eyed boy who stood out as though he was the shining light in the darkness.

"Mum?" Hermione asked, finally closing the last of her third year diaries. She had finished her fourth year a while ago, reading through them quickly and learning about the dreadful tournament that Harry was forced to go through, and the subsequent horror that occurred at the end. And most of it she didn't remember. Her life was destroyed by someone, and all Hermione could do was wonder just what was the next move. Could she go back to Hogwarts? She was unsure if she could even remember all of her spells and knowledge from the year before. She been afraid to read her books from the previous year, especially since she couldn't see them any more. Instead, she was left to reading her other classical books: Homer, Shakespeare, Faulkner, Frost, Emerson, Whitman. These were her teachers for the moment, teachers of thought and love and courage and honesty. She had added Bradbury and Orwell and enjoyed the warnings and the truth within the works. Rand was boring, but reflected the way she felt some days, despite the verbose work. Really, seventy pages for a speech. The woman needed an editor.

All her life, Hermione prided herself on learning and now two -almost three- years had been wasted away by someone with some goal in mind. Three years possibly without a single bit of knowledge to show for them. And for what reason?

The news played in the background, and very briefly, a story about an attempted heist at the Vatican came on. The report mentioned that while nothing was stolen, they were unable to catch the thief either after a long and daring chase.

"Yes dear?" Her mother was fascinated with one of her special newspapers. Hermione learned a long time ago not to ask where it came from, or even to read it. The words didn't make any sense, considering there was no punctuation or spaces or anything that looked like a modern language. In fact, she could tell there was a bit of every ancient letters/rune/symbols on the page. She wanted to learn but her mum kept saying when she was older. When was older? Wasn't she older now.

"You have no idea what happened to me, do you." She didn't have to ask the question to know the truth. They didn't tell her much about what happened in the hospital or what happened that lead them to it. All she knew as that Harry was there, and some man tried to kill her father, the greatest man in her mind next to Harry Potter, and Harry escaped after saving them. This was a new world, one that her parents knew more about then her, the hidden dangers and wonders that lie beneath everything. Her father was some kind of wizard, but not like her. In fact, there was a large sense of distrust for most other "wanded ones", as he called them. He never explained what he did prior to becoming a dentist, but Hermione knew Dan Granger had many dark secrets that he kept hidden away in his study. Her mother was a bit more open now that this danger had occurred and past. She said she was an evoker of the true names of the world, which probably dealt with the strange language that her mother was currently reading. But that didn't mean all of Hermione's questions were answered.

Emma closed the paper and looked directly at her daughter. Hermione wanted to flinch underneath the gaze, but remained stagnate, still and returning it. Gryffindors forward. "Your father is working rather hard on trying to figure it out, but sadly we can't access our contacts within the Order, or even outside the home right now." They had mentioned the Order before, but never in detail. Nothing was ever in detail. So far, Hermione and her mother had been on house arrest, save when she went to work with her father acting as guard.

The world had changed about a week ago, when lies were torn asunder and hidden truths, at least some, were brought to the light. But still, Hermione was left in the dark. Her parents wanted to protect her like they wanted to when this whole mess started. But all of them knew that it was impossible. "So, what happens next then, withdraw me from school?" To her, the fear of never seeing her friends again, her only friends, well, friend, petrified her all over again. The loss of knowledge, however terrible, could be recovered, but the loss of the what felt like the one person who stood by her most of the time, who tried to stand by her, held her still, solidifying her to her spot on the couch. The lights flickered for a moment, before steadying at a hearty glow.

Her mother stood up to consul her daughter when her father came running into the room, a hand raised and glowing dark white. "The wards have been breached."

"We have wards?" Hermione asked, her curiosity peaked. She had never seen this side of her parents before, the magical, though the magic was no even remotely similar to hers. In all her hours in the library, she had never seen or even heard of the variations of magic. In fact, up until this point in her life, the only magic in the world was what Hogwarts had taught her, whether through classes or, more importantly, her books. This new world was just more information for her to devour, process, and reproduce to show the world how good she was, how smart she was. Sadly, her parents forbade her from reading anything that they had in the house on their magic, either the truenames of her mother's study, or her father's hidden world in his.

Magic was more alive than just a wand could even suppose. It was merely an assumption proven by the teachings of a school that there was only _one_ form of magic, _one _way of life, but in truth, in the wake of the incident, it is only the perception of one way of perceiving life. Magic exists, in forms yet to be discovered, but exists nevertheless. Knowledge was power, in that the holding and rational understanding of what an object _is_enables one to understanding its nature and its purpose. That which is, is.

Her father stood at the door, a few feet from it, hand glowing and bearing against whatever may try to enter. Her mother pushed herself between her husband and Hermione, words forming at the base of her throat, the magic at an explosive rest, waiting for the mouth to open and fly forth into the darkness.

"Although the Shroud of Turin remains unharmed, the Vatican officials are still searching for why a thief would attempt to steal this priceless artifact."

Through the front-door window, Hermione could see empty street outside, the lamps illuminating the world that hide within the night once very hundred meters or so. The light hanging over their porch flickered on and off. Hermione had no idea how far the wards stood away from the house, but the barren porch, accompanied by the the moonless night and empty streets did nothing to alleviate her fears. Shadows stretched forth from the darkness, products of the lamps no doubt, but their arms and claws reaching towards the darkness. Tricks of the light, she thought, but still she stood behind her father and mother. Fear is the mind killer.

"Only a partial rendering of the thief could be made. One witness claimed that his eyes were emeralds placed in a skeleton's sockets, and his jet black hair hung about his head as though it would fall off at any moment."

For a moment, a brief singular moment, Hermione saw the flicker of a bluish hue outside her home. Across the street, and in the middle of a neighbor's home, the solid wall of something flashed before rippling into nothingness. "Show yourself," her father whispered. Her mother remained silent, but she could see the glow of her throat, the expulsion at rest. "Damn you, show yourself." The porch lights danced on and off, a sway to them now, a pattern in three-eight. And in the rest between, she could hear the darkness, the whispers, the silent voice at the edge of every shadow and hole with which you could not see in. _Come to me, come to me, _it would say, and Hermione steeled herself against the silent voice. The words unspoken often had greater harm then those said.

"Last known location, he was headed towards England. Authorities are on the look out for him, and state that the public should not try to apprehend him on their own. He is considered to armed and dang-"

The home went silent, and darkness leaked into every space that it could find. The only light left in the home was coming from two magic users, the father and the mother protecting their daughter, and the dying porch light. Dan's eyes remained on the door, while her mother shifted Hermione between them. They were afraid of the darkness, the silent voice roaring in the space of the swaying light from the porch. _Come to me... come to me... come to me..._How she wished she held her wand. How she wished that she was safe. Oh, the things she wished for in the darkness, the shadows of the world as the unknown solidified around them.

A furry object rubbed up against her leg, and Hermione fought the urge to jump. It was Crookshanks, the pet from her diary. She had read about him so much and grew to love him even more know that she knew him. He was frightened by the darkness, warming her from the cold black that was now stretching in their house, reaching out toward the Granger's, trying to pull them in and hide. The porch light flickered on and off, but the light from within the house, the light of the magic was slowly dying, losing shape and form to the darkness. Her father's hand no longer evident, but a blur. Her mother's mouth closed tightly and the glow dissolving into the air.

Time died, and the world slowed. The three-eight grew longer and longer, as the shadows stretched from outside. There was no flash of blue, the trick of the mind that she saw before, only the lights dying, put out by some unknown entity that consumed the light around them. Crookshanks' warmth disappeared from her legs, following the light into the darkness. No warmth, no light, no comfort within the swallowing maw of the world around them. Three eights slowed down, further and further, the internal beat of that flicking heart-light died. The warmth of the room did not dissolve away, it did not disappear or even seem to lessen. But rather, the warmth - of her parents, of Crookshanks, of her self - just was not enough any more. The darkness and the shadows of the house hung like a frozen blanket, enveloping her body and wrapping her so tightly that what little heat and light could was limited to just her heat, now in time with the swaying porchlight. _Come to me... ... come to me... ... come to me..._...

What was occurring, what strange new world had she found herself in? The magic of Hogwarts and the wizards and witches who lived within those hollowed halls held no candle, no flame to whatever this magic was. The books she could remember, pouring herself into and coming out a learned and intelligent young girl, spoke nothing of the darkness that fogged the living room now. Even the moon hid behind the darkness, frightened so much that it decided to step and turn its face away from whatever inexplicable horrors await within this black fog, arms stretching, claws reaching, and hands grasping at those who stood within the center. No magic could explain, not her words and her knowledge could grant her the wisdom to recognized and identify what was occurring.

And if, all else included, that was the sole fear that existed within her, she was more frightened by that idea then the knowledge itself. To realize, to accept and acknowledge, the fear would give it power over her. Maybe the darkness, the shadows, the nothings, could protect her from that fear, save her. _Please...come to me... ... ... ...please... ...come to me... ... ... ... ... come for me... _She wanted to stretch her hand out, for the darkness, take her hand, go with the voice that now seemed so warm, so inviting, so powerful. So familiar. Why should she stay with her parents, in this place, when all they wanted to do was bind her and control her, hold her back?

The shadows solidified in a form; there was this liquid skins slowly covering her body, growing up from her bare toes towards her jeans, soaking her skin in this odorless jelly. Her parents didn't seem to care, they weren't trying to save her, maybe she should leave, take off, disappear into the darkness, follow the hauntingly strong chorus of shadows, pleading for her to join. The ooze continued up her body, cold as the shadows, but warming her nevertheless. Maybe it was time to say good bye, kiss the world goodnight and lay her eyes closed one final time, embracing the darkness for what it is. _please... come for me..._ And she knew that voice. _Hermione... sav-_

"Harry." Hermione whispered and opened her eyes.

Light shattered the darkness, and all the machines exploded on with the energy of a new born gazelle fresh from a mother's womb. "Today in sports..." The television continued and Hermione found herself standing between her parents, confused and her hand was out. Her father was frozen in place, his hands stretched out to the side, pulling away from his rigid body. Her mother looked so serene and peaceful, arms crossed over her chest as though she were in a coffin, only standing. All the lights of the house were on, the shadows had disappeared, a sort of dying scream held itself in the silence, no sound filling the void.

"Dad?" she asked, touching her father. Of her family, she was the least familiar with this new world, if that was what caused it. But she knew the voice, the power, the heart behind it and felt that she needed to do something. Dan Granger slowly lowered his arms, but refused to meet his daughter's eyes. He had seen something in the darkness, something hidden away behind the light of the world in the regions where man and woman dare not tread alone. "What is it Dad?"

Her mother moved forward and grasped her husband's shoulders. "Dan, what is it?" He remained silent, his hands cracking as he flexed his fingers. Hermione recognized that motion; her father continued to crack his knuckles, his hands. his wrists.

"Deep within the Vatican," Dan said softly, "They have these chambers for those who... well, those who they can't exorcise or kill straight out." He didn't look up. "I was there once, accepting a job." He turned to Emma, grinning sheepishly towards her in hopes of dampening the glare. "It was long before I met you, hun. Anyways, my partner and I were looking for work, and there was always rumors that the Vatican-"

"You mean the Pope..." Hermione said, unable to finish her words.

"No," Dan chuckled slightly and stood up with the help of Emma. "no, not at all. The Pope is just a figure head. In fact, the place's real name isn't even the Vatican, its a title. No one really knows the real name any more except the information mongers that live inside, and they are never going to part with it. This way." He walked, glided even if Hermione's eyes could believe it, to his study and opened the door. Her mother followed him and Hermione was left alone for a moment before rushing to see what exactly her parents were up to.

Her father's den was sacred, as far as Hermione was concerned. She had rarely if ever allowed through the burnt oak doors, who apparently had runes etched into them so deep that she could have sworn they would be through to the side. Runes that appeared out of thin air, and pasting themselves to the wood; runes she saw for the first time despite walking past this door for all of her life, whether to the family library for something new to read or the kitchen for a latenight snack with said new book or anywhere really. Dan Granger's study was the center of the house, and everything seemed to pass by the door, closed and locked, until now.

"The Vatican acts as the center for majority of the magic users in Southern Europe, if not all of, at least those who do not consort with devils and attempt to control demons." His voice boomed through the open door and Hermione turned to look inside the room. Her mother was leaning against the desk just watching her father rustle through some papers in the desk. It was a study; Hermione felt herself a bit disappointed by the normality that drifted from the room. Her father was shuffling papers as "Come in Hermione, and close the door behind you." He didn't look, continued to dig through the drawer, his arm disappearing up to his shoulder at one point.

"And as that power center, they can control how magic is perceived, used, and taught... for the most part. Ignoring wanders, of course. There we are." He said, smirking at her mom as he pulled his arm out. As Hermione walked inside, she felt as though she was stepping through a waterfall. There wasn't many electronics in the room, just an old pc that her father had found before she was born. The entire room was only lit by a few candles, including one on a human skull. Books lined the massive study, stretching taller than she thought the house was. Runes were etched cross the exposed wood, covering almost every surface, lighting the room where the candles did not reach with a dull hue of purple. The red carpet was various pentagrams, with a giant one in the center, glowing as Hermione stepped into it.

"Of course," she said.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked.

"I'll explain on the plane, which your mother needs to-" Dan looked up at Emma who had pulled her cell phone was calling a friend of the family who had access to planes. It was going to be a long night, Hermione figured, and her world grew immensely in a few moments. "Plus the rules you need to follow."

"Rules?"

"Magic, true magic," He said, grinning as he looked at the cloth-wrapped items in his hand, "has its own way of thinking and sometimes, it pays to follow them." He looked at her when he unwrapped the items, revealing a red-steel dagger and a rune-laid bone. "Course, when you know the rules, its easier to break them."

"So we meet again." A voice in the brightness was often non-descript, Harry decided, and this one was no different. In fact, if anything its non-descriptness made it describable by calling it non-descript.

He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry, his lips burnt and his eyes were closed so hard that he could only imagine the darkness as light threatened to burn through them. He felt as though his entire body was on fire, even if it was just burn from the light around him. His arms were stretched out and tied to a wooden beam, his legs ramrodded straight down, chained to the ground. A catheter and a IV drip keep him hydrated, feed, and alive, though in truth, barely. So Harry could only assume when he heard that voice that he was going insane. "Focus, Harry."

Rather hard to focus when you were slowly being cooked, but it beat being deepfried like many of the meals he had made for the Dursleys over the years. Dursleys... the name sounded familiar, as if it were something or someone he should remember. Though in the fact that all his attention was either on his burning skin from the light or the random - "Harry, you need to focus."

Can't right now, but if you leave messa- A blast of cool air and darkness swallowed Harry, folding him into nothing. His body relaxed and despite the pain being on the very edge of the darkness, he wasn't so concerned with it. At least now he could get some answers from the non-descript voice that guided him to the chamber where he was currently being held. It wasn't his fault that everything else was so easily escapable. Instead, they had to crucify him to an extent and turn on all the bloody lights. "It seems that your situation is a bit more-"

"Torturous?" He was sitting down now, at least as far as his mind was concerned. The coma at least granted him a bit of relief through his insanity.

"I doubt that you are using the correct word there."

"Like I care." Harry coughed in the darkness. Sitting down, even if it was just his imagination, was a relief. "What do you want? You're the single reason why I'm in the mess in the first place." He followed the voice because there was nothing else to follow. He woke up in the hospital, after an event that still rested on the edges of the darkness with the light and the pain, because this voice asked him to. The attack that followed, well Harry had to admit, that was all him. He couldn't allow Mr. Granger to be hurt, even if he barely knew the man, so he attacked the stranger with magic rolling off of him. The next task was apparently reconnecting part of Harry to himself, which entailed traveling to Vatican City, finding the hidden world of strange magic and wonder, steal a priceless artifact, and apparently get caught. "I didn't ask for your help."

"No, but you accepted it nonetheless."

"So what, I'm in your service forever? You still haven't explained who you are."

"Do you believe that its necessary?"

"Yes." What it was.

Silence was a companion Harry knew well, even in the days prior to Hogwarts, he and silence knew each other, for silence was the only company he was allowed in the cupboard. So when the voice did not respond, Harry figured that, like his past, he was left alone again, to have to figure things out for himself. He force himself to stand up in his mind and walk towards the light and the memories, maybe see if he could-

"There are many different worlds Harry," the voice said, and Harry stopped walking. He couldn't turn to look at the voice because there was no where to turn to see it. "So varied and colorful, that to describe one would probably just create a new one."

"You are talking about alternate realities."

"Maybe alternate from yours, but full fleshed and alive realities filled with flawed people and things, even if those flaws are perfection. From slight changes in your life, such as you having a positive, even possibly romantic relationship with say Draco Malfoy or Severus Snape-"

"That's a slight change? Think I'm gonna puke. And in no way is that a positive change. If anything I'd consider that-"

"To major ones such as your parents alive and Tom Riddle being a mentor/father figure to you, and you betrothed to Draco Malfoy."

"I am going to puke. Just what is your obsession with me and that piece of dragon dung."

"I am simply trying to you show there are a variety of worlds that are possible."

"By bringing up me with Malfoy?"

"By showing you the possibility of the impossible."

Silence returned, and Harry did not appreciate the company. The silence meant he was left to his own thoughts and in the current situation that he was in, he didn't want to think about what was just beyond the dark horizon and everything that had led him to this point. His chest was still sore, despite the wound almost healing. It would be just another scar for him to carry. "So what now?"

"Now we call in the cavalry."

"No, I mean between us. I know Hermione will find a way, especially since her dad seems to be in deep as this bat-shit crazy magic that are a part of. But at this point, I'm starting to thing you enjoy this type of thing."

"What thing?"

"Torturing me. I mean after all, apparently after my aunt and uncle went crazy and attacked me, you wanted me awake for it all, including the partial reconstruction of a lung, thank you by the way for the necessity of that."

"You're welcome."

"I'm not finished yet. Then a couple hours after surgery, I wake up to find two crazy people throwing magic at each other in my room. Part of me is unsure that you weren't involve, but I'll let that one slide if nothing for the sake of it saving Mr. Granger. Then we take this cross continent travel through shadows of all things, where I am freezing my ass off because I'm wearing nothing more than the hospital gown. I'm surprised I didn't get frostburn, and I happen to like my dangly bits, so that's another thing I have to thank you for."

"Again, you're welcome."

"And then we get here, looking for that bloody artifact, which by the way the wards were brutal to get through, even if you didn't realize it, you probably thought of the possibility. Furthermore, we got caught on the way out and here I am stuck in this bloody contraption, with Merlin knows what all around me, slowly burning me to death. In otherwords, my non-desprict shadowy man: who the bloody hell are you?" Harry screamed at the darkness, which seemed odd since he wasn't even sure he had company here. All of this simply could be his minds way of rationalizing everything that had happen the past few weeks. But if that were true, then everything that had happen would be nothing more than just a delusion and that would mean he was suffering for no reason. Harry could not accept that as the truth, for if he did, then.. then... he just couldn't. His life was more than a series of delusions.

A figured stepped out of the darkness. He stood no taller than Harry, though impose his figure on the world around him. He cloaked himself in darkness, hiding as much as he could. He was old too, white streaked black hair, and wrinkles covered his face. But the man couldn't cloak the stark green eyes that peered at Harry. The same eyes Harry saw every morning through his glasses in the mirror. "Hello Harry." the figure said.

"Hello Harry," Harry replied back. Silence stepped in between them, emerald eyes glaring at emerald eyes.

"You wanted to know, Harry."

"I doubt this fully explains things."

"No, probably not."

"Well, are you?"

"Are I what?"

"Going to explain things. Starting with "who you are", and then continuing with "what are you doing here'; maybe end with 'how are we going to get to out of here.'"

"I'm you."

"Really."

"Well, I'm a you, to be more specific."

"Which that isn't." Harry was getting tired of the run around. The non-descript man who was descript now did little to alleviate the fears that he was going to die here. that Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-under-the-stairs, was going to die in captivity; the irony of it did not escape him. He could feel the pain slowly burning the edges of his mind again, the cool darkness doing nothing to stop it now. Either they increased the temperature or he was really getting burned by the lamps. He wouldn't see Hogwarts again, or even use magic as far as he knew it. He wouldn't see his friends, never have to deal with Hagrid's rockcakes, or play chess with Ron again, Quidditch with the team, or greasy Snape and his potions(though harry considered that one a plus despite everything). Worst of all, he wouldn't see Hermione again. He would never have to a chance to sit next her and struggle with his home, her leaning over him as she check it and his notes, correcting him in his flaws. He would never smell that library and citrus smell that he found drifting into him every time she was close. It was a comfort, he found, something that he longed for and even held close some nights at the Dursleys a book of hers, that still had that glorious scent. Not that he would ever tell her. She was the world to him, and he couldn't bear with the loss of her. Whatever happened he-

"In my world, I was a god." the new Harry said. Harry looked up at the figure. He was staring off at the horizon. "I had power that you couldn't believe, all because someone, somewhere thought I should. I had power but no knowledge. I was a toddler with a detonator to all the explosives in the world. And she made everything worth it." He turned around and looked at Harry. The man looked almost lost. "I had her in my arms for only a short while, but the world was perfect, even when I was in pain. You understand pain don't you? The pain of the body betraying you. The pain that courses through every part of you and then pins itself in your heart. But all that we can deal with. We know the physical, Harry don't we."

"With her, when she was taken for me, I lashed out. A pain I didn't know how to handle took over me, and all I could was lash out at the world. When all was said and done, there was nothing left. I killed it all to get my revenge, and then I killed the man I blamed for her death." He looked away again, and harry knew it was to prevent him from seeing the tears. "I couldn't die; I had too much power, too much in me anger to die. But my world was over. So when I woke up in Hell, I began walking-"

"You woke up in hell."

"Death itself for the powerful and the wise is really just a brief sleep. When you wake up, you just begin the journey again."

"And you woke up... in Hell?" Harry didn't move, though couldn't would've been better.

"Yes, Hell... When you have done what I have, you really can't go any place else when your world is over. After waking up, I began walking upward, thinking of how I was gonna deal with everything, and what were my options. I couldn't just die, well I could be killed but there really wasn't much in existence that could kill me. And my death through violence would break a cycle that many need for various reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss with anyone. So I was forced to find other means of understanding my life and existence. Which led me to discover some truths about life in general. There are no real differences between you and I save the fact that my existence is one of power, while until this moment yours was not. "

"But you said-"

"I said that we have no real differences, so that means you suffer the same affliction I do, probably what that creature wanted you dead in the hospital. Why you saved the man I don't know, but either way, we are the same people, Harry. No, our worlds are different, your world's connect is much more... fluid than mine, meaning there are more users of magic in different forms than I original thought possible in my world. But here, hidden in plain sight, is everything and anything Harry. And that makes things a bit more... complicated for you. Which brings me to the reason why I am here. I have found a way to die and let the powers that be be happy."

"And it concerns me."

"It concerns you, yes. Basically, I offer understand and maybe a just a bit of power to go along with it, while you offer me a house to die in." Harry remained silent while Old-Harry continued. "Basically, and I saw this like thirteen thousand realms ago where you combined with Voldemort, I lay my essence over yours, and we fight over who is the dominate personality. You win, I die. I win, well, I just keep on trying to find someone who can beat me it seems."

Harry stood up slowly, his skin creaking. "So you win no matter what."

"Seems about right."

"And I can win or lose?"

"Yep."

"Then why would I want to."

"Because I have no problem leaving you here to fry and go find someone who will fight me."

"Bloody hell."

"Been there, done that, had it scoured into my soul."

"So I have no choice?"

"Well, there is a choice, but the options just aren't good for you. Look, if it makes you feel better its a battle of wills not power. I really have no access to my abilities when we will do this, I think."

"You think?"

"Sometimes, without her, I seem to be lost most of the time."

"Why me?" Harry asked, looking at the old, insane version of himself. If any of this was true, he figured he might as well go along with it until the pain was too much for him to think any more. But this didn't fit. Something was off. Something made this older Harry choose this world, this reality over all other options, including ones that this other Harry might have actually existed in, if at a different time or place. No, Insane-Harry wanted something specific, and it wasn't just to die.

"I told you why. We have no real differences."

"But, if all the worlds are similar on some level, and the changes come about from choice and chance, then that means you could have probably picked a world even more similar to your own than mine. Especially one that probably you couldn't have lost to. Instead, you picked my world, my life, my identity, as if you want something from me, or my life, or my identity."

"Not true, I simply-"

"No one does something without gaining from it. And after being alive as long as you have, I'd guess that you'd gain more from taking over me, simply because you'd allow me to take over you if you wanted to die." Harry stretched his back, even if it was just in his imagination. "In terms of what you have offered so far, what challenge is there to you, a god as you claim, versus lowly meek Harry. As it stands, you gain no matter what. So it comes down to, why even make the offer."

"What are you talking about?"

"Seems to me, the question is now who benefits? Who benefits from this transaction if you will?" Harry kept talking while the old-Harry was growing more and more nervous. Life had changed in the past few days, and while the voice could be considered a driving force, Harry had a hard time accepting that all the actions were simply a byproduct of the voice, that he had no control over his own life. And if the voice simply gave control to him, Harry was not about to let that control slip ever so easily. So he'd do something he always felt like doing: babble. Hermione seemed to be good at it, and why not it looked like it was so much fun. "If I take this deal, which is not an agreement or disagreement mind you, but rather just a hypothetical, so if I were to take this deal that you proposed, without any counter deal from me, something we will be discussing, then I would benefit how? Not your so-called god-like power, since I am not the same as you, though you claim we are similar, but what else could I gain. Certainly not your knowledge, since you said you would be destr-"

"Enough!" Old-Harry yelled, for the first time showing anger and frustration. His voice echoed off of nothing, and returned stronger than it had left. "You know nothing."

"Probably," harry replied. "But knowing is never the point. Knowing without understanding-"

"Silence!"

"the chattering monkey? I think not. No, I'm still curious as to-"

"You don't deserve her!" He probably should stop it, but in all honesty, Harry was enjoying himself too much to stop.

"By who's command? Yours? Like I would ever-"

"Stop it right now."

"listen to you in the first place. Though that-"

"I mean it, Harry, don't push it."

"does raise the awfully fun question-"

"Last chance Harry."

"Do you?" He didn't feel the first hit, nor the second. Harry was unsure if he even felt the fifth one. But he knew he felt the sixth; it was him hitting the ground. His body ached, in addition to the burning sensation he felt upon his skin. Nothing was probably broken, but Harry sure felt like his chest collapsed, his legs were shattered, his arms dislocated and hanging at his sides, and his skull felt like it was flattened. Still, Harry tried to sit up.

He laughed, and couldn't stop the blood that came out of his mouth at the end, coughing and coughing. A lung was probably destroyed. With sigh and a thought, though, Harry was as good as new. Old-Harry took a step back. "What sorcery is this?"

"I figured as much." Harry stood up slowly, and with each movement his body was stronger.

"How could you-"

"We are in my mind, insane-one," Harry replied. "And because of that, I am king. Funny how simple it is to get that first attack, its probably why Snape withdrew immediately when he was done." he looked bigger now, as if the weight he had lost in transit, the decaying muscle, was gone. had returned to him in full. He felt stronger than ever, as he accepted that he was just plain odd. "Now, back to what I was saying before." Old-Harry attempted to attack him, but a wall of nothingness held the stranger in place. "Cui Bono? Who benefits. I am no scholar, that has and always will be Hermione's position in life. But that doesn't mean I don't pay attention.

"In all of your talk and bluster, I noticed how you failed to mention her by name, which probably means one of two things: you are ashamed of who it is or you are ashamed of what you have done, meaning that you don't deserve to speak her name any more. Either way, you are attempting to fix what has happened or you have done. You are attempting to relive your life with her, who ever she may be.

"This brings us up to the idea of us 'combining and fighting for dominance.' Honestly it sounds like crap, and there is this saying: if it looks like dragon dung, smells like dragon dung, and has the feeling of dragon dung, then you have some major problems on hand. Seems to me that there is no ritual needed, but rather its a ritual of acceptance. Where I accept you into my body and you take over." The harsh smile on Old-Harry's face told him the truth. "Which begs the question: what if we battled here." A sharp punch from the nothingness slammed into Old-Harry. Followed by another, than another. "I'm of the opinion that you are simply a spirit, albeit a powerful one, one that can be beat simply because you are weaker than you think. Arrogance is a terrible price we pay, isn't it Harry."

"Without me you will never defeat Voldemort, not even in your own mind." Old Harry shouted.

"I forced him out before, I'll do it again."

"Oh, and now? What of that which plagues you now." The spirit pointed to an area of darkness that he did not notice before. Hiding itself in the darkness, was a lump of something, hunched over and cowering as two beings battled. For the brief moment of confusion, Harry dropped his wall and Old-Harry attacked.

Harry couldn't describe what happened. Even years later when asked about it, he came to accept that he was just odd. A battle of wills, then, was never seen by anyone but those involved. For Harry, it was an over load of pain and laughter. He couldn't stop laughing, not because it was funny, but because it hurt so much. He remember lights and sounds and smells and colors and touches and tastes. Senses he didn't know he had he felt pain on. It felt like forever, but ended so quickly. But He never gave up, he said, that's the key with a battle of wills. A person lost when they lost faith in themselves, even for a moment. Hermione liked to say it was because he was too foolish to do so. Harry never corrected her on that.

When it was all over, Harry stood over the body of Old-Harry. Now, he looked nothing like he did before. Old-Harry shown his true colors and its will reflected it. The spirit looked what old would be personified, and what happened when power slowly decayed and withered due to neglect and arrogance. He smelled the dying breath of a flower, the last dreams of a stone before it melts away, and thoughts of a cake soon to be burnt. It was the sight of the old tyrant learning that he would no longer rule in a mirror and the sound the land giving in to the inevitable destruction of its body. He felt as though he just destroyed part of who he was, though was unsure whether or not it was a good or bad thing. Though he knew he was unhappy with what just occurred.

"All things come to an end, Harry," Harry said. "It's what Dumbledore said about death. It is, in the end, the reason we fought against Voldemort our first year, because he refused to let things end. Now its your time."

"No it's not. I need to-"

"Apologize?" Harry said. He knelt down next to the figure. "Then accept that all things must end." He didn't hate Old-Harry, he didn't even pity the old spirit. There was a sense of sadness. He could have been great, a being a power that could have changed the world. But from the story, he guessed that Old-Harry did change the world, just not for the better. Maybe that was the sadness. In all things possible, this Harry lashed out. The anger and the hatred and the sadness within him destroyed his world.

Even if this wasn't a real other Harry, Harry took the even at its value. Hatred destroys. Anger destroys. Sadness destroys. All in moderation are acceptable because they are human, but once you extend yourself beyond the moderation, then all bets were off.

"And if I don't?" The voice was the sound of ancient parchment crumbling from touch.

Harry shrugged. "Your punishment isn't my concern. What is is dealing with that." He pointed at the other blob of darkness in the nothing. It had wrapped itself in the nothingness, attempting to hide in that which was Harry. The thing was afraid, just as the old spirit knew, it knew that its time had come.

"You have soundly beaten me, so why can't you destroy it."

"Its holding me hostage?" Harry could only guess. The darkness that was him helped hold the blob in him, he figured. Old-Harry laughed and then coughed.

"Close enough." the old spirit stood up and walked toward it. "Maybe you do deserve her."

"Probably not," Harry replied. "But I think I deserve the right to try."

But Old-Harry wasn't looking at him any more. He was standing over the blob hiding in nothing, looking it over. "At the very least, Harry, in my departure, know that your mind and soul are yours fully." He griped the ends of nothing and tore it away. Harry gasped as his head exploded, but he didn't look away. Underneath that which is Harry was a figure, weak and thin, emaciated and rank. He recognized it from the graveyard and Quirrell. It was Voldemort, not powerful or anything just weak and hiding until he could take over, until he could strike. A proverbial snake in the grass.

"Do you think..." Old-Harry said.

"Do I think what?"

"Do you think I'll see her again?"

Harry shrugged. This spirit wasn't a good being. He had done terrible things in anger and hate. But existence is sometimes enough of a punishment. "Maybe. Maybe Hell isn't a physical place that we all like to believe it is. Maybe its where we go when we are mad and hateful. And maybe, the hate has finally left you, so you might be able to see her again."

Old-Harry smirked and reached down to the other spirit and grabbed its arms, pulling it up. Harry felt as if something was tearing his brain apart; he could see lines attaching the Voldemort spirit to his nothingness. Old-Harry continued to pull upward, dragging Voldemort with him. The cords stretched and stretched, pulling hard and farther. Harry could barely focus at the moment and his head burned deep within. There apparently was no subtle way to remove Voldemort from his mind, and from the looks of it was firmly entrenched within him.

Someone was stretching and pulling his mind; cords and chords exploded as Old-Harry tore out the portion of Voldemort from his mind. Harry watched as memories and ideas and concepts were destroyed. These were portions of him, tied deeply into Voldemort. One can not simply cat-tank into Mordor. Little memories, large moments, and sides of him Harry knew never, all torn asunder, no longer part of him, no longer him.

Old-Harry stood still, holding up the figure of what Harry assumed to be Voldemort. Underneath the figure was pure white, emptiness for the loss of him. "In its place, I will gift you something that you need for your future, Harry," the wizened figure said. "With what you have lost, I will replace with something. Maybe a bit of power or understanding, insight or belief. I frankly don't know. But in the end, I'm sure what I give you will help.

"I am also leaving knowledge of a ritual. This ritual will release that which is you, the dark side, the powerful side, the true side. It isn't like Voldemort or myself, Harry. Something that has added on. Just as I was like you, you are like me; and our fathers were more than shown and seen. I ask only that you bind what find, for the energy and magic you release will be more than you can bear. Mr. Granger will know what to do; he seems more competent than mine. Goodbye, Harry Potter, Chosen One, Boy-Who-Lived, and Half-breed. Goodbye and Godspeed."

The world flashed white, and Harry couldn't see what Old-Harry did. But when the darkness returned. Only Old-Harry stood there, weak and tired, finally the way he should be. With a lost smile and wave, Old-Harry drifted away in a breeze, taking his body away in petals or ashes, and slowly returned him to the realms he dreamed of. Maybe Old-Harry would find happiness in the ending.

Left alone again, Harry couldn't help but wonder: how the bloody hell he was gonna get out of this one.

Author's Note:

I'm back, though not badder than ever, I still am learning more about writing each day. When I picked this story back up, I've realized that I might be able to finish it, especially since I've been writing a couple thousand words a day on this, as well as working through the story line constantly.

This story is a monster in its own right now, and though I do not own Harry Potter and wonderful Miss Granger, I can say with certainty, everything else is mine. I own my views on magic and how they are represented here.

So please, read and review, and if you are a beta looking for work, or know someone who is a beta, please have them contact me at tskwiat gmail dot com– I am more active on that email than anything else

So, release, sit back and enjoy the ride

Note: I hid an easter egg here... try to find it.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Listen to your father, dear," Emma said. The Grangers arrived at Aeroporti di Roma very early in the morning, despite leaving their house at ten in the morning. The flight was only a few hours at most and yet, it seemed to take forever to get there. It took a lot longer than her father wanted to leave, too, partly due to some negotiating that had to be done. Hermione didn't feel comfortable in the room with the fat sleazy Cockney, but Emma reassured her, despite some rather rude looks from the slob, that they had nothing to fear. She felt better when her father took the man into the next room and returned wiping blood off his knuckles, proclaiming that everything was taken care of and they would leave as soon as the plane was brought out of the hangar. Hermione wanted to ask questions, her nature didn't allow her silence, but a plea from her mother and a command from her father kept her mouth shut until they were on the plane.

"Whatever happens, whatever you see, remember that you are protected, hun," her father said once they were alone in a private jet. This was a new world and she was excited. Something to learn, and however quickly it occurred, Hermione would pick up everything, if only to organize it later.

The time on the plane was spent going over their plan to retrieve Harry from the Vatican. Her father stated that they would not let the boy go easily, but that wouldn't stop him. He figured he had some pull, if not, well, he would find some ways. Her mother was more sure of what was going to occur, and spent the next few hours on the plane writing something on paper her pulled from her bag with inks and quills Hermione had never seen before. One feather shifted colors of the rainbow, though it looked rather scaly. The smells that originated from the stack of inks rivaled the potions laboratory(and she refused to call it anything else given how mad scientist it all was sometimes) and Hermione could have sworn one ink moaned as her mother used it. She wasn't quite sure if it was in pain or pleasure from the moan, but she quickly moved away to the other side of the plan after that, leaving Emma with a smile on her face as she continued to write whatever she was writing.

Her father, on the other hand, sat in a corner of the plan, holding onto the arms of his chair for dear life. Dan's first act when they got on the plane was to close every single blind then sit very far away from the cabin. Making a stiff drink from the liquor cabinet near him was his second priority. He talked briefly to Hermione, saying only to follow his lead and stay a step behind him while appearing to take notes on everything she saw and heard, before he downed his first drink and started a second one, this time the cognac that he had was filled to the brim of a cold goblet.

All in all, the flight over was quiet and calm, though Hermione could have sworn that she heard roaring of something outside, and when she went to look, her father yelled at her to keep the blinds closed. Her curiosity would have to be put on hold for the moment. So she was left reading the few books her father had allowed her to bring with, detailing some of basic history of the world she would be entering.

She read all five books, the smallest one thousand pages, three times before the plane landed, with over an hour to spare. She might have skimmed towards the end of the books just out of boredom and desire to be there finally.

Most of the books contradicted each other, and none of them agreed on the origin of magic. Some stated that it was here prior to the world was created and that God simply built over it. Some believed that the world was formed from Chaos, and the God shaped what occurred next using magic. The differences went even further when the books went into the use of magic itself. The only one that she felt she could get a straight answer from what this book titled Magic: an Idiot's Guide by Anonymous. She thought her father gave it to you her as a joke, but it ended up, despite the massive number of pages in it, being the best of all five. Magic wasn't simple. It wasn't easily divided and defined, for it was different for everyone who experienced it. Wanded ones were the exception, for they developed their society as such, but even then, even everyone within that specific culture had a different connection to magic.

Brief tales and lists of various types of magic users, and the author apparently wanted to make the distinction clear to the reader: magic is, and because it is, it can not be perceived as whole. So the users break it down however they could attempt to perceive it, thus creating their existence. The options weren't limitless, if only limited by a prejudice and preconceptions of people, and therefore preconceptions of magic. Furthermore, magic was passed through bloodlines, though sometimes odd things could occur. A mage would produce mage after mage through their line, though sometimes, that form of magic could be alter or skipped. It might even not exist for a while before suddenly showing up again. And none of this precluded the idea that magic could be learned.

The author considered this list to be grossly under representing of the magic world, stating that if anything, this did not cover the ethnic variations and selections, focusing mostly on some of the more popular ones of Europe and North America. Though popular did not mean strongest and certainly did not mean many. These were just few of the more well known magic varieties, even if they were selective and secretive. This text touched briefly on the 'wanded ones', referring to the magic that Hermione grew up in. More secretive and hidden than most magic, they had segregated themselves in their superiority, believing because they could mimic most magic with the least amount of effort, they simply were the best. An idea that the author did not agree to.

Another text, again authored by anonymous and was probably older than Magic: An Idiot's Guide, focused solely on the magics of a warlock. It seems that while all warlocks are different in what they do, their connection to their magic is similar: a bending of the will of magic by forcing one's will on top of it. A warlock could do anything if they forced magic to act the way they wanted. Some created fire, burning the air with their magic. Another might just removed obstacles, as the author wrote of a famous one, though what the obstacle might be was left to the judgment of the warlock. Their power was only limited by the will of the user.

The third book, which without a translation spell, was rather limited, but offered a summary of what this author named as speakers or truenamers, a scholarly school of magic where a lifetime of research often only lead to a few words known. But they believed there was power in knowledge, certainly in words. With the right set of words, a speaker could change reality. For they spoke the original language, the one that born all the worlds and possibilities. In their mouths and souls, they knew how to bend time, space and understanding to their well. A myth existed that some of the first speakers knew words that could unname a being, dissolving them into nothing.

The other texts were just propaganda against "wanded ones", speaking against their reasons to leave the known magic world and form their own community. Despite being radicals, it seemed, wanded magic was the most popular drawing attention from everywhere and people from everywhere. In fact, there was an article about the foundation of a school under the Merlyn Principles, though this was the last fully acknowledge school of wanded magic by the magic community.

In all, the books did nothing to enlightened her, though Hermione believed that she had much to learn about the world before she felt ready again. Especially this new world. She wondered if they had a library she could see, or borrow. Keep would be better.

Dan Granger watched as his daughter began her descent into his world. She had finished all the books quickly, too quickly in fact. The trip would be long, he knew that, even if normally it wouldn't take half of the time; they had to travel in a round about manner to even get to the Vatican. The issue wasn't time. If Harry was the being who disrupted Dr. Stephens, then he should be alright. The time was more for his daughter to get to know at least part of the world she was going to be entering, but also for him to observe her.

Emma first noticed the strangeness of his daughter five years before, though this was after the first magic she preformed. One day, when she was home from the office, she watched how Hermione read over thirty books about animals, most of them taken from the library without a library pass. But that wasn't the odd part. That night, at dinner, Hermione began to tell them all that she learned, spouting out incredible detailed passages above mollusks of all things. Then she moved onto extinct creatures and their bone structures, pointing out the measurements of a raptor's leg bones. This could have gone on for hours, if Emma didn't put a stop to it and got a conversation going on the latest children television shows, a vice that Hermione still enjoyed during the summer. Dan returned the books the next month, after checking every single fact that his daughter said, for his sake not Hermione's. His daughter was smart, borderline genius, and had always been a fast reader. But this was new.

There were rumors and myths floating around of Learners, magical beings who could learn and absorb knowledge as people can breath air and see. They could look at a building and know everything about it, strengths and weakness, as well as the greatest chance for escape or destruction. One myth claimed that a Learner was responsible for the discovery of magic, that with a look, they understood how the world worked and how to make it better. It was the arrogance that made Learners dangerous; because in knowing everything, they never understood anything. The few times a so called Learner attempted to take over was devastating to the world, not just magic. But there was never proof that it was really a Learner or that they were anything more than they appeared. No one had met one in person, but everyone claimed to know someone who knew one.

The truth of the matter was much simpler, in Dan's opinion. Like all things in magic, it was hard to discern fact from myth, but in the end it is possible with enough study and inquiry. A Learner was simply gifted with the ability to learn and acquire knowledge often in different ways. The application of the knowledge was where the real power was. Thus, critical thinking and logic were skills that his daughter would need in her future. Skills that the last two years threatened to take away. Now was the time for rebuilding, even if it took more than time.

The flight took ten hours in total. From some maps and quick math with just very basic estimation (Hermione Granger does not guess, but educated estimations based on logic was acceptable), she figured out that at most the flight should have been two and half hours, baring no delays and clear weather. Somehow, they were traveling somewhere that wasn't Rome, but when they stepped out of the plane, they arrived at the Aeroporti di Roma.

********

Back in London, ten hours earlier, the Order of the Phoenix was attempting to figure out what happened at Privet Drive Number 4, especially since it was currently a pile of smouldering ruins. Remus Lupin and a young Auror who introduced herself as Tonks were sent there once the first alarm was raised that something was wrong with the building. When they arrived, after running a few blocks to the house, they found the entire block inaccessible. They saw massive red trucks pull up and men pour out of them, spraying water from somewhere to put out the fire.

Remus stood still, unable and unwilling to move from the spot as he watched the Muggles attempt to save the burning house. He didn't need to be a werewolf to smell the burning flesh within the building, even as far as they were. For years, he was prevented from seeing Harry, by law, by promise and by guilt. Law prevented him from seeing Harry for years, through wards and curses. Promise simple held him away, a foolish promise that he would even grant the chance of leading danger to Harry, a promise he gave to Dumbledore. And guilt forced him into a bottle each night, simply because of the pain he caused as a werewolf, and his inability to help his friends in their hour of need.

But the worst of it, the thing that forced him to face an awful truth that burned deep within the core of him, was the smell. His werewolf senses sometimes bleed into his human form, forcing him to know things that he shouldn't know. Like that burnt human smelled so much like the meat he ate every day to help sate the wolf within him. That body's muscle could have been beef, the fat pork, the cerebral fluid a sweet perfume to add to the wonderful smells of the dead. This of course was only if the body was fresh, for rotten is rotten, and there is no sense in eating the rotten. And hidden underneath all of it, deep within the smell of cooking food, Remus smelled that which was dead and lost, something from his past that he swore wouldn't return: brimstone.

Tonks was smelled it too, meaning the idea of brimstone was burned into the surroundings. The actual scent was hidden within the fire and the bodies and the people and the sweat and tears, too low for anyone human to smell. But the idea was there, which worried Remus more than the fact that Harry's body was missing, meaning he was alive, though there were no leads.

"I swear, Professor, the entire neighborhood was out, watching the firefighters deal with the mess. We stood there, watching them deal with it. Couldn't get close enough to see, but once the fire was contained, they only brought out three body bags," Tonk finished her report. "They were identified as the Dursley's. There was no sign of Harry."

Despite it being Sirius' house, Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his fingers tented and staring straight ahead. He was thinking or planning, and Remus could only assume the worst was yet to come. Tonks put her paper down. Remus couldn't help but admit that she was attractive, though he wasn't sure if that was the wolf speaking or him. The problem with lychanthropy; there were two sides of everything, a bestial being within him tearing to get out and threatening to consume him and all he knew. There were days he could control it, and days it threatened to devour him. With Tonks, apparently devour had a different sense, and for once, Remus couldn't disagree.

"The worst part of it was the smell."

"Of course," Dumbledore replied. "Smelling human bodies is something-"

"No, not that Professor," Tonks said. "It was this rotten egg smell that I couldn't get rid of. It got into my cloths too." Sirius, Alastor, and Dumbledore stiffened, though probably for similar reasons though they might not know that. This was not going to end well, and probably a bit bloody from the Sirius shot Remus a look before standing up.

"Everyone, leave." Remus had heard this voice a few times, it was Lord Black showing himself, when he needed something done, and he couldn't trick his way through it. Sirius Black was a strong, enigmatic man who was always in control of himself, even if he didn't realize it. There was a reason why the core of the Marauders were so close, and it wasn't the reason that everyone thought it was. "Now."

The Order of the Phoenix was a volunteer group, a collective of like minded people who were focused on the demise of Voldemort, especially since the government was not. There was no more than thirty people in the group, though less often showed up to the meetings now that they started again. They followed Albus Dumbledore, the leader of the light, who gladly played chessmaster, even if that wasn't his intention. The members expected orders from him, for he was the most powerful, by their standards and as far as they knew, amongst them, and Ablus Dumbledore was rarely wrong. When Sirius order people out, though, it was new for them, but they did listen, especially since it was his house after all. Each glared at Sirius as they left, though. "Tonks, stay."

Alastor and Dumbledore did not move, though Remus walked over to Tonks, who looked oddly worried. He offered a smile and she returned it, her hair shifting from the vibrant pink to a more subdued brown. Remus wanted to offer words of encouragement, but he really didn't know what to say. She was worried and he assumed it because Sirius was the Lord Black, who, despite Andrometa's "removal" from the family, was head of the family. Only conviction of murder could remove it, and even then in a separate trial by his peers. So his imprisonment did nothing to limit his power, despite the government's search for him. Meaning that Tonks feared that she had done something wrong, for she alone was kept behind.

Sirius Black could impose himself anywhere, a talent granted to every Black from what Remus knew. Sirius' grandfather was said to have silence a room without a sound, and part crowds with but a glance. It seems it was not an exaggeration. Prior to his imprisonment, Sirius was a playboy, a man-child who had no purpose but to enjoy himself and life. He had his friends and family, though wasn't really close to the latter, but never a real purpose in his life. Even fighting was nothing but a game to him. Even with Azkaban, he hadn't changed and talked about finding himself a nice broad and showing her a good time. But now, with the disappearance of Harry and the reignition of a flame best left dead, Sirius Black, the child had apparently decided to step off the bench and onto the field. With a wave of his hand, the room was sealed and they had privacy they would need. Remus took a seat down by the other men, aware that each knew more than willing to let on.

"Tonks, I need you to go over what happened there, exactly. Leave nothing out, every sight, every smell, every feeling that you got. Was there magic residue? Where were people standing? Everything." Sirius stared at her, his voice and posture refusing anything but compliance. With a smile and a nod from Remus, she started a bit more confident.

So Tonks did. She described every last detail, even a few that Remus had to admit he missed. The magic of the area was off, ignoring the collapse of the wards, something that put the wolf on edge, but Remus took that as more of Tonks around him. She had this tendency to distract him. Not that he complained. She finished and the room was silent. Remus sat heavily in his chair, even the wolf feeling worried.

"So gentlemen," Sirius said, walking over to a liquor cabinet in the room. He poured five drinks of a harsh Muggle whiskey and promptly handed them out. It said something of the situation that Alastor Moody did not hesitate to down the alcohol. "It appears that we have a situation on hand that we did not account for. I think it's time we all came clean." A look at Albus said everything.

"I first learned of James' unique heritage our seventh year at Hogwarts, when there was an incident involving some Slytherins." Remus smirked at the memory. "It wasn't meant to be something special, after all, he, Remus, and I were pranking them for years at this point. But this day came after the death of James' grandfather, the man who took me in when I was kicked out for the third summer in a row."

"Who helped me find shelter and safety in the summer, after James demanded that his friend come over," Remus added.

Sirius smiled and nodded. "Charles was a great man, and sometimes I doubt we all deserved him the way we acted."

"Is that regret I'm hearing, Sirius," Albus said.

"Maybe but that isn't the point. The point is that a new year started and James had found out about his past, about his heritage, and his family. Charles Potter died in his sleep, as far as the newspaper was concerned. So when James received a letter notifying him the change in his family, the loss of the Charles, he was sullen and depressed. Not just sad that he lost a great man and his father figure, but more so, as if everything in his life was a lie. Not to mention that he was sick for a few days, down with something and stuck in the hospital wing. Pomfrey was out for the week and we had some random witch from Mungos filling in. At first, I thought that was the reason why James' stay was so long. So, Remus and I figured that a good prank could cheer him up.

"Didn't take long, we'd it planned for a few days, so it was just a matter of execution. Would have been brilliant too had Snivellus not gotten involved. Somehow, just as we were about to make the magic happen, he and about ten seventh year snakes showed up. There we were, standing with a few buckets of some, well, we'll just call it interesting materials and eleven wands pointed at us. It was only a matter of moments before a professor showed up, but given the numbers, I was sure that we'd be in the hospital wing for a bit before serving our detentions.

"When James appeared out of nowhere, right behind the Slytherins. I swear, he waved his hand and they parted, stuck to walls. The wands dropped right where they stood. and he just walked over to us smiling devilishly. He stood taller, stronger, and probably more handsome than he'd been too, now that I think about it. It was as if James Potter, the spoiled boy who just wanted to have fun, was left behind and returned was this figure cut from granite. After that day, James acted like a new person, one of honor, responsibility. He didn't prank much, if at all, but when he did, it was to get back at someone. Many place the change on Lily, and that probably helped, but I think whatever it was, happened because of that letter." Sirius poured himself another drink and smiled. "And the strangest thing about it, was that whenever James did this fantastic feats of magic, there was this sulfurous smell about. We thought it was just another prank, but now that you tell it that.

"I found that letter, once, and only read a part of it. It spoke of the history of Gryffindor, of the trials and the pain that they would go through. But power came from it. James came back too quickly for me to finish it, but from what I could figure it out, it reminded me of a Devil's Bargain." Tonks gasped while Alastor frowned; a Devil's Bargain was not unheard of though rarely followed through, simply because no wizard would be foolish enough to do it. Muggles may talk of selling one's soul to a devil, but for a wizard it was possible. Legend even had it that was the purpose of the Dementors, to house the souls of those who sell them until collected.

"Sirius spoke of sulfur smell following James. You have to understand though, it wasn't just there when he cast spells, it was James now. His scent had changed, he had changed on a fundamental level." Remus said. "We never brought it up because honestly, we loved James. He and Lily were the best of us. That year he changed, for the better. There was no better man than James Potter than."

Moody spoke up. "How can a man who sold his soul be-"

"I doubt it was he who sold it, Alastor," Albus finally spoke up. "James was brash, foolish, and arrogant at his worst, but he knew better than to play with fire. Rather a Cursed Line. Could be that Potters did something in the past that cursed them. Or it could be far worse, but we do not know"

"Still don't like it."

"You don't have to, Moody," Remus said. "just understand that we might be dealing with the same thing here. That Harry had awoke the darkness in him, and somehow this was the result."

"Do we think he's dead?" Albus asked.

"Unlikely," Moody replied. "Potter has more luck than most, so he's alive out there. No, we need to be talking about the Myrddin Proclamation and Principles, especially if we have a Cursed Line. You of all people should know this, Albus."

"A Cursed Line is not enough for a violation of the Proclamations, Alastor. In fact, there is nothing to even suggest there is a violation."

"Excuse me but what exactly is this Merlin Principles and-" Tonks finally spoke up, her silent figure only accented by the fact that her appearance was just as meek.

"It's 'Myrddin' my dear, though I can understand the issues and similarities. And its the Proclamation and Principles," Albus said. Above all else, the man was a teacher, a sage on the stage. "It a decree and rules for which to protect our way of life founded by Merlin Satanspawn himself."

"I've never heard of them," she said.

"Of course not, this title has been lost for a while," Moody waved his glass and Sirius grumbled as he went for the bottle, setting it down in front of the wizard. "Currently, we know it as the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692, though it has existed longer than that." Moody didn't even have the decency to pour another glass; despite his paranoia, he just drank from the bottle.

"And you two know about this." Sirius smirked and Remus shrugged. Tonks attempted to glare at the him, but the older wolf did nothing. The inner wolf was smirking if Remus understood it correctly, though he was unsure if it was a good or bad thing. "and why did you call him Merlin Satanspawn."

"One of the nefarious myths revolving around Merlin was that he was the son of Satan, and that his actions were the basis of our entire culture. Some of the more restricted texts even say that he is the reason why majority of magic has been lost, as a means of protecting our way of life. But that is neither here or there."

"The point being," Moody said, "is that we are dealing with something that should not have even been here in the first place. A Cursed Line has unholy blood within it, that someone in their ancestry had.. carnal relations with a demon, devil, or some other dark one, and cursed the future generations. They possess great power, physical and magical, and - Albus why did you not tell us of the presence of a Cursed Line?"

"Because I was not informed until years after James' death."

"But the Cursed Line is not our concern, at the moment. Finding Harry must be our number one priority."

"Albus, the boy could be-"

"Harry James Potter was one of the best and most outstanding students I have ever seen," Remus said. "Given the events last year, that he was forced into a situation that you could have easily prevented, Dumbledore, and then had to face Voldemort for a fourth time, by himself, mind you, I'd wager that he was better than all of us." The wolf gave no quarter to those who threatened its tribe, especially the cubs. Remus was strong-willed if only to keep the best within sated and down, but sometimes, like with Tonks oddly enough, he and the wolf would agree. "you are the one who placed him in that hell hole, you are the one who left him there, alone, afraid, beaten-"

"Don't you think I know that," Albus shouted. No one moved, no one said a thing. Albus Dumbledore was not one to shout, or even raise his voice. In all the time that he knew him, Remus had never seen Dumbledore be anything but the picture of calm, collected reason. But now, he looked every bit the old man that he was. "You don't think that I was unaware of every last thing that happened to Harry, every bruise, every broken bone, every single little thing that happened to him in that cursed place. Do you really believe me to be so heartless and cruel that I would sit back and do nothing if something was the option?"

"Yes," Sirius replied. Glaring at the old man. Abused knew abused, and Siruis could see it in the eyes of Harry every time they met.

"I am paying my penance, Sirius ," Albus said, as he removed his robe, revealing a simply button down shirt and dress pants, beige on brown. unbuttoned his shirt. "I did not believe that the Dursleys would be so cruel, but I was aware their... dislike of magic. I did not want to believe they could hurt the child so badly as they did." He began to unbutton his shirt.

"I didn't think I paid for a stripper to this meeting." Sirius, the first to attempt not to be serious. "Certainly not an old man stripper."

Dumbledore chuckled and opened his shirt, revealing a long red gash that tore itself down his chest, just left of his heart. Sketched across him, in various shapes and sizes, were scars and bruises, some looked older, some fresh as if they were just healing. But he was certainly not as aged as a centennial should be. "When I first placed him there, I did a long term curse on myself, tied to Harry."

"Why would anyone place a curse on themselves?" Moody asked, his eye focused on Albus' broken chest.

"To monitor Harry's condition. For reasons that I can not release at this time, I was not permitted to remove Harry from his environment. But I could at least pay penance for the crime of leaving him there. Every pain he felt, I felt. Every injury he sustained, I sustained. The curse prevented me from healing my wounds magically, unless Harry was healed as such. This is my punishment for my crime. I know Harry still lives, for the curse is still with me."

"That scar?" Tonks asked. Albus started to redress himself, though a bit slower this time, as if he was still recovering from whatever happened to Harry.

"No," Remus said. "That scar is about a week, maybe more old. Looks like a knife wound."

"Correct, as far as I could tell from the sensation that I felt when poor Harry received it. I would have seen people to the house immediately, but sadly, I do not handle pain well any more. Between the stabbing and the fire that occurred afterwards, I blacked out."

"Aye," Moody replied. "Minerva found you in your office, slumped over."

"That does not excuse your actions."

"I have no illusions of that, Sirius." Albus sat back down, his body heavily situating itself in the chair. "I am not a good man, certainly when compared to others. I try my best, but I am also trying for a better world. A world I will not see." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Everything is not as black and white as you wish it, Sirius. That one act while evil in the eyes of one is good in the other, neither preclude the other from being wrong. The world is."

"Is what?" Tonks asked.

"It just is. We cannot define that we exist in, because to do so would change- no there is no need for this discussion. All that you need to know is that I am paying penance for my actions, and that Harry is alive. We must search for him, and bring him to safety."

"To you, you mean," Remus added. He was not happy with Dumbledore's lack of answer, his hidden agendas, and the fact that he did nothing to stop the pain Harry was in.

Dumbledore shrugged. "If necessary, to protect him, even from himself, yes. If the Cursed Line has manifested, then we must find Harry and shelter him from the world before they learn of the situation. The clues are readily available to those who are willing to look for them. If it is something else, then Harry must be protected and hidden for his own safety."

"Another means to the end, isn't it," Sirius said. He was upset, Remus could tell, but it was more than that. Control was something the Maruaders knew about, and to be under someones control was something the last true Scion of the Blacks would not allow.

The room was silence, and Remus shifted in his chair. Too many truths were released tonight, and there were still many more that were hidden from each other. Dumbledore had some, but he knew that Moody and Sirius had their own; Remus was unsure what to make of everything, given that he felt more research into the situation was required. "So what now?" Remus asked. Dumbledore's silence worried the wolf within him; if necessary, he and Sirius would do whatever it took to protect Harry from the old manipulator.

"Now, with Harry missing, we attempt to figure out what occurred that night. It is imperative that we know what happened, if nothing else to make sure that it wasn't a violation of the Myrddin Proclamation."

"And hide him away?" Remus asked.

"No, the time for hiding and sheltering is past, at least in terms of Harry." Dumbledore finally opened his eyes and was looking at everyone. The twinkle was back. "As much as I wish to protect him, if this attack or event was planned, hiding is no longer an option." He knew something, Remus decided. Dumbledore knew something more that was important and probably deadly, but the old man kept his secrets well.

"And if it was a violation?" Tonks added. "Not just Harry's oddity and Cursed Line? What then." Dumbledore turned to Moody, the only man Remus knew in recent history, if not record, to actually fight and win against one.

"A demon is hard to kill, smart as a whip, and deadly as a basilisk with no eye lids, so if they are involved and wanted Potter alive, he would be. Course, if they wanted him dead then this conversation is futile," the old Auror started. "No, in all likelihood, if a demon was involved, then this wouldn't be the only source of blood and chaos in the world. Chances are, sadly, we are dealing with a devil."

Tonks snorted. "There's a difference? You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm afraid so. A devil is slightly less powerful, though what it makes up for is in intelligence and awareness. Devils plan. It's what makes them more dangerous. Aye, if a devil was involved, we should be prepared for the worst, because everything that follows will be much worse."

Silence took over the room again, sitting down in a chair with them and drank expensive brandy. It stood behind each person, hanging over their shoulders and reading their faces as though it was a simple children's book. It hovered and drifted, the unseen figure that prevented them from speaking what could be worse than, than Voldemort, worse than Harry's tortured life, worse than every fear and danger they had. Things had changed, and not for the better.

********

Hermione followed three steps behind her mother, who was a step and a half behind her father, through the catacombs that were the Vatican. In truth, it was nothing like she expected. The Vatican they were located in had to be about a mile in the Tyrrhenian Sea if she went by the estimated travel times, but lately, she had almost decided to give up on that context. Though, it did cross her mind that she was using the wrong maps.

The Vatican itself was a series of streets and catacombs, filled with both vendors of all types and beings of all type. From what Hermione could tell, the Vatican was two places with the same name. The first was like Diagon Alley, a place where shops and stores set up with the intent of making any sort of profit, though Hermione could tell that some did not accept standard currency (who buys in larva). Things that you only dreamed of, that were made of dreams and from dreams could be found for sale, for the right price. Her father said that this was one of the few markets in the world that catered to unique crowd, as he referred to it. Another was rumored to be located in London, though apparently there had been some trouble lately and he never did figure out the entrance.

The second place with the name of the Vatican was an posh business that stood about ten stories high and probably stretched as far down into the ground, though its basement had roots of its own. Here, decisions and ideas were traded like stocks, and the whole of the magic world of Southern and Western Europe was decided. The above ground portion was used for the government, the decisions and the rulings of issues and problems. The below ground portion, hidden from view for good reasons, acted both as a prison and a library. Here, a man could be kept alive for the simple fact that he could not be killed. The most dangerous were not housed here, but those that pissed someone off were.

For the moment, Hermione was silent, mapping every detail around her. She knew how far they had traveled despite the blackened windows and dark car by turns and average speed. She knew each step, each turn, each path they had taken, and was projecting the various alleyways they had passed on the way here. She didn't know how, but she bet she could draw a detailed map of the entire complex from memory, blindfold, with a crayon, and still show every color and mark that she saw.

Since her change, Hermione became aware that she was learning too quickly. Absorbing would be a better term. She took things in naturally, and her intelligence allowed her to use that gained knowledge quickly. She could recall, with total clarity, everything that happened. Her reading speed increased greatly, and it felt as if a block was released, and the dam was reversed. Everything came flooding in, which worried Hermione. She was always of the belief that you could learn, but there was a finite space for things. That eventually she would run out. What then? She could feel the starts of a headache as she continued to map the place in her mind, using only the floor. Things would not end well.

They met a strange man in the lobby of the Vatican, where he quickly ushered all three of them down to the first basement. There business occurred. Daniel Granger was a powerful man, she figured, because people stepped away and looked down at the ground as he walked. If he was part of this world, then whatever magic he held would be fantastic to learn, and Hermione wanted to. Emma Granger was introduced as her fathers consort and advisor, and Hermione was given only the title of scribe, so write she did. But she did not write of what she saw of the building, the location, but of people and their actions and reactions. Hermione could play her part; if they wanted a simple scribe, then she would record, just not what they wanted.

They passed room after room, corridor after corridor, with passcodes and keycodes, people moving in and out, just daily business Hermione recorded them all: passwords, the numeric keys, the magentic ones had their own notation for the sounds they made. She recorded behavior and hidden thoughts and emotions of people that showed when they didn't think. The record wasn't for her though, Dan Granger had a plan.

"As you can see," a messenger droned on and on as they walked through the various corridors, "We have top of the line technomancer and druidic protections and glyphs as means of overseeing the operation here. Every month, we review and upgrade if necessary, looking at ensure our clients integrity and safety within this building, as well as some various Old-One protections just in case. Never know when something from the depths of existing life is going to rise up and destroy us all."

Hermione recorded the lies and just remembered the truths. Lies were abundant: in body language, in words, in sights and sounds. Illusions fell apart to her when she looked at them, the very fabric of whatever spell powered the magic turned into, well, fabric. They looked unreal, as everything else stood out in the beauty that was life. But illusions were neither beautiful nor realistic. Most of them, those that hid something behind them, looked like a child's drawing using crayon and marker, along with failure to color in the lines. Of course, she memorized where the illusions were and made notations on how to spot them. Her headache was getting worse.

Emma Granger said nothing, but looked back at her daughter every once in a while. To the average eyes, she was over looking the work of a lowly scribe recording the adventures and times of a great man and his consort. To more observant eyes, she was worried. Hermione was using a great deal of her new ability without understanding how it worked. Her father insisted on it. But she was unsure. A Learner was powerful, in raw ability and application, especially when the Learner was a genius in her own right. It was difficult to know where Hermione's natural genius ended and her power began, but there was a line. A Learner absorbed the information, but it took a genius to apply it. Dan Granger wanted that application if they were going to escape here alive. And she almost hated her husband for it.

The problem with a Learner is that they never stopped, which meant they took in too much of the world around them. There was an article out that talked of autism and compared it to Learning, though in many ways a Learner could function with much more ease, the inability to shut off the sensory aspect could grow if they did not learn to control it. For the moment, Hermione was a raging torrent of power, hidden underneath layers of reality that very few could pierce. People like her. While the Vatican housed some of her old colleagues, they would simply see a scribe who was unable to control her magic, a truth that housed a lie. Emma only hoped that they could finish the rescue plan before it was too late.

The messenger stopped in front of a group of four men in brown robes holding rosaries. Emma could sense the holy power within each of them. At least they looked like men. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was what race and gender in the world of magic. But since the symbols craved into the back of their heads denoted the Order of the Voice, a religious sect that believed they held in their possession that which was the voice of Yahweh crytalized. Wasn't the oddest sect she'd seen, but they knew more about the fallen and capturing them then any other group in the Greater Europe area, including the Mediterranean. "Here he is, sirs," the messenger said. "I will return when your work is complete."

Dan Granger was a calm man, a patient man, a man of internal strength and power. But for the moment, that was not who he wanted to be. "You need help, so explain what you did wrong so I could fix it." In either case, he wasn't subtle.

"There is a...creature-"

"Who attempted to pilfer"

"A valuable artifact, right-"

"Underneath our very home." All four of them spoke in the same manner as the twins: broken and finishing each other's sentences, though apparently these men only used four words at a time.

"Since it has refused-"

"Counsel and currently is-"

"Not communicating with us-"

"Your expertise are needed." Dan gave all four a look before staring down who he decided was the leader.

"Fair enough, and thus the plea for help to communicate."

"You miss understand, warlock-"

"We seek not communication-"

"But extermination and retrieval-"

"of our most valuable." The last speaker stopped short, though none of them showed it.

Dan smirked. "That one got away from you didn't it." No one responded, but Hermione couldn't help her smirk. Her eyes remained focused on her notebook, which currently was almost full. Her hand hadn't stopped recording what she saw since they started the whole trip. "Where is he?"

"Within these walls houses-"

"our dangerous captive and-"

"A means to hold him-"

"Until a person arrives."

"As we are unsure-"

"Of its origins, its-"

"extermination is left in-"

"your hands, exalted warlock."

"Flattery will get you every where." Dan smirked and walked forward. The steel door separated them from Harry, she knew it. She could feel her friend. The four parted to reveal a computer screen along with a series of other readouts and keyboards. She recorded the four passwords each of them entered, in order, and the screen showed nothing but bright lamps focused in the center of the room. "this is your means of holding him?"

"Correct, we have found-"

"That the light prevents-"

"His escape, so we-"

"Held him until now." Dan nodded. Hermione didn't strain to look for Harry; the was only the outline of a figure, but she could feel it was him. Harry was close, he was in pain and suffering, but he was close. Her father and these strange men had their conversation, leaving the women folk alone. Hermione recorded their movements and postures, but in truth, explaining the subtle differences that each of the four men acted as one, including adopting the same stances and movements, was difficult in her notes. Her headache didn't help the situation. Rocks tumbled down mountain with every breathe, and she absorbed what people did and didn't do, said and didn't say. With each moment, she knew what was happening, learning about the ever evolving situation.

"Let me get this straight," Dan said. "You want me to kill this boy simply because he took something of yours. Even if you don't get it back?"

"Correct, exalted warlock. We-"

"Seek to ensure the-"

"Safety of our ways-"

"Even without the items."

"This action you take-"

"The death of one-"

"Will protect us all-"

"From future foolish endeavors." The collective nodded and decided that was all there to be said. Dan looked at the equipment, then the door, and turned to his wife.

"Well, it seems then the rules of business have been established. My beautiful companion, may you draw up the contract."

"Such action is not-"

"Necessary as we have-"

"Completed one prior to-"

"The arrival of you." Dan turned around, frowning.

"What do you mean?" he asked the collective. "What contract?

"There is no need-"

"For your outside forces-"

"To waste out time-"

"With writing a contract."

"We have taken care-"

"Of all the procedures-"

"And have made ready-"

"A form for you."

"All it requires is-"

"A quick signature and-"

"your work can begin-"

"And end, exalted warlock." The body language told her that no one was happy at the moment. Her father for the breach in etiquette and the collective for the assumption that Dan dictated the rules of the engage and the breach in their security system. The magic in the air slowly became palpable, almost visible to her eyes. Currents flowed off of her father, refusing to touch him. The same currents converged on the collective. They drew in power from the surroundings, taking in energy and magic from the lights, the sounds, the heat, everything. Her headache grew as she began to think of ways to use her newfound knowledge against people, including her father. The extra sight just added to the pain.

"Scribe!" Her father shouted, and Hermione stepped forward, her eyes refusing to look at anyone. Not out of respect, but pain. To see anything else just increased how much pressure her brain was under. Her body was hurting, starting with her head and slowly working its way down to her toes. Each new sound, sight, taste, smell, and touch was adding new information to her mind, things she didn't realize that she could learn. It was horribly wonderful; pain from the act of learning, but pleasure from the fact that she was learning. The back of her head pulsed each time something was absorbed, sending ripples down her spine and arms. It wasn't comfortable, more odd, as if her magic was trying to spread the knowledge through out her body, but the pain of the migraine was more worrying.

Hermione didn't watch her father any more, she just closed her eyes and tried to close herself off from the world. She couldn't do it; she couldn't just stand there and take everything in. Is this the new world that she wanted to learn about? That she was so desperate to learn about? Her desire was so strong that her magic made is so, and she learned alright. She was learning about the interactions of particles on subatomic level, despite not seeing them. She was learning about how magic could be diverted and destroyed, despite the Laws of Conservation. She was learning how her mother smelled when she randy, something she never cared to think about, let alone know. In the end, all Hermione could do was learn.

"Ems," Dan said, not looking up from the notebook. His wife turned and looked at Dan, her focus on a parchment displayed in a case near by. "Take Hermione and run."

Emma was confused for a second, but a glance at her daughter told her everything that she needed to know. There was an inherent danger with Learners. Despite their rarity, they were well documented and studied, if only from first person prospective. A Learner who was too obsessive, or naive or untrained, had the potential to become too absorbed the world too quickly, opening their magic and pulling everything in. They couldn't observe themselves, so a Learner could not see the effect and dangers. But outsiders could, and Emma saw what her daughter was doing. Dan must have figured out from the notebook, as he was flipping through it as she rushed towards Hermione. With a swift movement, her daughter was in her arms and Emma ran towards the exit, carrying her away from all the turmoil and knowledge that was lost and locked in the building.

Dan turned to the collective; his smile was bright despite the danger he brought his daughter into. He did not know how strong her magic was, how strong her will was. There were recordings of everything, even things that Dan did not ask for. But in the end, he had what he wanted. His daughter found a pattern within the passcodes, one that no one would have been able to figure out if they hadn't looked at them all, at the same time, while making educated guesses to the next ten passcodes for each door. Hermione, in a matter of minutes, had broken the Vatican. "I think its time we change that contract boys, or even better, you just listen and we not even allow this to get out between us."

"What are you referring-"

"To, exalted warlock, for-"

"We hold all the-"

"Cards and rules here." They knew he sought the safety of the boy, if only because that a bounty could be collected. Apparently, someone else had placed a heavy bounty on the boy, though no one had stepped forward to claim that role yet.

"You did, until I brought a Learner within your walls." They gasped as one, which was funny. It wasn't forbidden, but in their haste, the guard never asked about the scribe, seeing only what he wanted. A good Learner could figure out the passcode of one or two doors. A great one would find them all. Luckily for the Vatican, Learners were far and few between, so the they little to fear. But Hermione, she was something. She had figured out how the passcodes were generated despite all magic and protections they held, then broke that down into one phrase, one word, to shatter all the wards and security the Vatican had. Without any knowledge of truenames. All she had done was brought logic and reasoning to magic, through almost infinite amount of knowledge. "I hold in my hand everything that you could possibly need to know about the Vatican, including all yours codes, magical and not, and every future one."

With a wave of the notebook, and a force of magic, Dan copied it and sent the copies to his safehouses across the world. "In fact, if I spoke just a word, why I could bring down...everything I believe."

The collective group looked at each other. In their haste, they had forced Dan's hand. He had no desire to destroy this bastion of magic. He simply wanted to get Harry out. But there was etiquette that needed to be followed. A warlock, he followed that, despite his name, or maybe because. A contract between two mystical beings ensure that the contract would be followed, both by letter and by spirit, if done correctly. There was a reason why the Magic had Lawgivers, and why lawyers were just as evil in this world as the mundane. No, this collective, in their haste to hide the fact of the break in and housing a criminal, in order to protect their order, had allowed a Learner of extreme power into the Vatican.

"What is it you want?" Dan looked at them. Only one spoke, he stepped forward, and glared at him. This man had the monks habit like the rest, but his hair was long red, almost on fire. It certainly matched the anger within the man's face.

"Give me the boy," Dan replied.

"He has stole from us."

"What exactly?" No one answered, and all the collective refused to look at him or each other. "You don't know do you? Which means you have had numerous break ins, and many things are missing. You know some of what was taken, but since the number of items housed beneath here rivals that warehouse across the pond, you can't be certain."

"We do know that he attempted to steal the Shroud of Turin earlier."

"But since that was a copy, a non-magical one at that, I assumed you found him trying to find the real thing here." Dan glared at them. "So you have no proof that he has committed any crimes."

"He broke in!" The man screamed.

"Give me the boy and you're secrets remain as they are now: a secret." For a moment, Dan warred with the collective, their wills combined and their thoughts one again. The power that they held was comparable to four men, but it was rumored that Dan'el was more than just a will-bending warlock. Rumors were nice in moments like this, for that alone broken their gaze, and Dan was left smiling. The lead man turned around and went to the panel.

"And the notebook? What-"

"Should become of it-"

"Now that we have-"

"our deal, infernal warlock?"

"That remains with me as insurance that you don't do something foolish, now release the boy."

The lead one paused before entering the final sequence. "You know what he is."

"Only the Order views him as evil from birth, their self-righteous views will doom us all."

"But clearly he has-"

"done nothing to alleviate"

"That theory has he-"

"Or is there more?"

Dan remained silent. He knew next to nothing about Harry, except that which Hermione told them. But the problem was Hermione was bespelled by a wanded on for the past three years, which mean the possibility of everything that they know about Harry being a lie, that he was really a horrible person. But Dan Granger trusted his daughter. He would just have to be extra careful and have a nice long chat with the boy. "Release him now, or we'll see what you've been hiding here for years." The lead man flipped a switch and something powered down behind the steel doors.

The collective worked quickly, pressing buttons and pulling levers. The lights were off in the room at least, so Harry would not suffer any more from that source, though Dan doubted that his current pain was reduced any bit. If Harry was being held in the manner that Dan figured, than he was probably dealing with a severe sunburn, if not second degree or even third. But there was nothing that he could do at the moment for the boy.

The door opened and showed the dying glow of countless bulbs. A figure stepped out; his skin red and raw, but with black hair just falling around, and probably off his face. He was bare as the day he was born, which probably didn't feel good at all. Dan was sure this was Harry, it had to be, otherwise Hermione was going to kill him. His body was the same, though given the fact that his skin was cracked and red, almost burnt in some spots, so Dan couldn't determine by scars if it was him.

Once out the doorway, the figure sighed and nearly collasped, but grasped the frame for support. His knees did buckle though the grip he had on the frame held him up. Dan moved to touch him, pulling the boy up by his shoulders and throwing an arm around his own. They limped away, the notebook safely away in his jacket. He waited until they turned a corner before speaking as soft as he could, hoping this boy would hear him, "Please tell me you're Harry Potter."

"I hope you realize that after the past few years that I've been in there that I'd say I was the bloody Queen of England just to escape." Dan glared at him, and he could have sworn he saw a smirk. "Yes, I'm Harry Potter, friend of Hermione Granger and godson of Padfoot. Happy?"

"Extremely." Harry sagged as his legs gave out on him. "And you were only there for a couple of days." He said nothing else as Dan pulled up and dragged him to the exit. Things were looking up, maybe. "You know, for a scrawny kid, you sure are heavy."

"Sorry, let me fix that." Harry tried to stand up straight, pushing off of the warlock. For the first time since that night, Dan saw the fiery green eyes that took in the world. Rumor had it had green was the color of magic, or willpower, or anything really. Rumor was king in the magical world, just because it was often true, especially if people believed in it. Dan saw Harry's eyes though for what they truly were. Power.

Slowly, the skin fell off his body, slothing its way down and exposing the black skin underneath, which quickly followed. Puddles of burnt flesh and a shadowy substance sat at his feet, and the body of a fourteen year old boy stood before him.

When Harry finished, he was certainly much thinner, pressing gaunt even. But the second to third degree burns were gone, showing only a slight sun-burn all over his body. He magicked himself a pair of shorts as well, which Dan was kinda thankful for (something wrong about caring a naked fourteen year-old boy around). The scar on his chest and those across his body were much more evident. He collapsed again, this time, breathing rather heavily. All in all, Dan had to say he was impressed. Just wish he knew how Harry did all of it. "C'mon, we need to get back to the plane."

Harry nodded, but said nothing else as Dan picked the boy up again. He was much lighter and they moved quicker through out the Vatican. Maybe now, he could get some answers concerning just what the hell was going on.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The flight back to London was interesting for Dan and Emma Granger. They watched over their daughter and her friend like hawks, trying to help them the best they could. Hermione was in a fitful sleep, her magic slowly dying down and falling into a stasis pattern. Whether or not she remembered what occurred, the pain that she went through, would be the question. Emma recognized the signs of a Learner who went too far, too many years watching over them; it was the fear she had about the whole operation. Dan said it would be alright, though she was unsure. She didn't know if Hermione would recover at all; at least until Harry Potter arrived.

Dan had carried the boy to the plane, stating that Harry was in danger of magical collapse from what he could tell. Somehow, he had protected himself in that dungeon, altering his body and his mind to make sure that he was okay. Emma noticed that the boy was in and out of consciousness, but one look at Hermione, he stood up straight walked over and touched her forehead. For the third time that day, he collapsed completely, his eyes rolling in the back of his head as if he fainted. But Hermione's painful unconscious state turned into one of just a fitful sleep; Harry Potter blocked the magic and the pain.

Dan checked on his daughter throughout the three hour flight. Getting out of the Vatican was easier than getting in. In fact, magic treated it as if you were simply leaving the real Vatican rather than some alternative form hidden in plain sight. For the most part, Hermione was recovering from a terrible fever, but she would recover. Her magic was coming back, quicker than before, and she would be able to walk by the time they returned to England. Harry on the other hand, was in danger of much worse. Whatever he did back in the catacombs was an act of will and survival. He protected the layer of skin just underneath the top through his internal magic, cocooning himself in a layer of shadow, which he sustained for much longer than he should, using the heat and light of the lamps to hold himself together.

Not to mention the destruction within his mind. Dan had seen mind magic before, where people had whole sections of their mind erased, altered, or simply obliterated. But this was something else. Through a force of his magic, he saw that someone had removed a section of Harry's identity than patched over it, attempting to fill in the hole with something else. The problem was, the signature was almost identical to Harry's, meaning that he removed something from his mind instinctively, then attempted to repair the damage with other aspects. What portions of his identity was removed and replaced, they would have to wait to find out when, if, the boy awoke.

"What now?" Emma asked, taking a seat next to her husband, who was attempting to empty the in-flight bar by himself, though it would probably take much more than what was available here. "I mean, we have Harry for whatever reason-"

"To return the favor he did in the hospital room." Dan took another sip of thousand year old brandy.

"I understand that, I'm just saying that we're flying blind here." Dan grunted and continued to drink. Emma stood up just enough to slid herself into the lap of her husband. "Hun, we can't just do nothing. We have essentially kidnapped a fourteen year old boy, and our daughter needs training; she needs help."

"I'm thinking."

Emma smirked. "Last time you said that I ended up losing my knickers at that party we crashed."

"My parent's sex life is something that I never wanted to know about." Emma stood up quickly and rushed over to her now awake daughter. Hermione looked dazed, though never confused, her eyes scanning quickly, almost as if taking in everything. "The pain is gone."

Dan nodded. "I figured as much after Harry did something to you."

"Harry! You've got him? Where is he? I need to see-" Hermione tried to stand up but she just feel back into the couch they prepared for her.

"Relax, hun," Dan said, pressing her to lay back down with his palm. She tried to resist in her desire to see Harry, but Hermione was in no condition to fight well; she laid back down as her father held her there. "He's... asleep for the moment, and probably will be until we get home. Whatever he went through in the past few days..."

"Just let him be and he'll tell you when he's ready," Emma added. Hermione started to speak, but her mother placed a finger over her mouth. "No buts, dear. Harry's exhausted himself in surviving then did something to ease your pain."

"I need to make sure he's okay."

"You will hun," Emma replied. "When we get home. But for now, he needs to rest. And we need to talk."

"About what?" Hermione asked, as reflex probably because she could guess what they were going to talk about.

"Today," Dan said, "I asked something of you I had no right to ask. I thought that it would be easy, that your magic would protect you. That I could protect you. But in my arr-"

"No." Hermione said.

"No, what?"

"I"m not accepting your apology." Her father's face dropped for a second. "There is nothing to apologize for."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean just that," Hermione sat up slowly, her parents finally allowing her to at least move that much. "Mum, Dad, I will do anything to help Harry, if for nothing else he is the one person who I can remember the most, even above you two." She looked away at the last part, her eyes focusing on the Boy-Who-Lived lying unconscious down on the other couch. "But you can explain just what was happening to me there. I honestly don't remember half of what I wrote."

"Stage two?" Dan asked. Emma thought for a second. "It would explains how you got this far without any real training of it."

"Stage two of what?" Hermione looked back and forth between her parents.

"In the magical world, there is a saying: Magic is. You can not define magic because its so varied. And when you do define it, it will change on you again."

"Sorta like Schrodinger's Cat?"

"Similar, so when I say magic or mystical workings,often I am referring to it as a whole. If its a specific form or teaching, then it'll have its own name. For example, I am a warlock, a binder and bender of wills, specifically mine versus magic. Your mother is a truenamer, a person who speaks the original words of the universe, who can change reality with the right phrase."

"You've told me this before," Hermione said.

"Listen to your father, dear," Emma replied with a smirk.

"You, my sweet pumpkin, are what we call a Learner, you are a being of great power, and even greater danger to yourself and others."

"So, what I just learn anything?" She asked as though it were a joke.

"Correct." Dan smiled. "That's how you were able to do this." He handed her the notebook.

Hermione read it slowly, turning the pages one a minute. She didn't recognize half the words or phrases, or even some of the symbols, but she did see the same writing that existed within her diary and her own notes. "I don't know what this means."

"That is the breakdown and theory of every single aspect of the Vatican, including the single truename to unmake it." Emma gasped and Dan just smiled.

"But I don't know truenames."

"No, and that's why I think you've entered stage two of Learners. See, there isn't much about this type of magic, so what we understand comes from those who have survived or are rather weak in their power. We have only first hand accounts, some of which talk of a second stage, where the Learner begins to see beyond just what is there and makes connections regarding knowledge they might not know yet. Their minds move too fast, and they start to take everything in." Dan was flipping the pages of the notebook, showing Hermione what she had recorded. Pages of a new language, a variety of pictograms and symbols scattered across the pages, scribbles and letters; there was no control, or understanding, just a recording of her mind as she learned them. "In fact, it can reach a cycle where they are just constantly taking in information, learning it, and absorbing it. The information is transferred into energy and stored within the body."

"But the body can only hold so much, so that energy has to go somewhere. Heat, light, sound, force."

"Exactly, pressure in your body builds, and then there's the whole-"

"Hermione," Emma said, glaring at the excited father. Dan had issues when it came to anything he enjoy, which was magic pretty much. He was like his daughter in that fact. "What your father is trying to say is that you need to learn to control your ability, your magic, if you are going to exist."

"You mean I'll die?" Hermione eyes widened.

"No, you'll just cease to exist, absorbed in the knowledge of the universe and well, everything." Dan smirked. "So clearly, we're going to prevent this."

"I just need to learn how to control this magic then right?" Her father nodded. "Okay then, lets get started."

"Sadly, this isn't like your wanded magic where we can just give you a band-aid and say its all better. There really is no known method in terms of Learners gaining control over their magic. It either happens or it doesn't."

"So we need you to stop learning for the interim, until we can figure this out." Emma looked broken at her words, as if she knew what they would do to her daughter

Dan frowned. "So that means no books, your main source of learning. I think that if we cut off the start of your magic, then we can try to prevent another episode from occurring like before. You reading those books as fast as possible, memorizing them, jump started your magic. I want to make sure we don't allow that to happen again."

Hermione said nothing, staring at her hands and trying to think of anything. She could feel the drive to acquire knowledge burning in side of her, a habit that she wasn't feeding any more. It was an addiction, and clearly it could become a problem. All her life, she enjoyed learning and applying, and now, she found that her drive and love could kill her. Before, with the understanding that she would have to make up the lost time and knowledge that was stolen from her, Hermione would have been able to cope. But now, she couldn't. Now she would have to limit if not eliminate her learning until she could get it under control. Her parents asked her to deny part of herself, to deny her using a limb.

Tears wanted to pour forth and spill out of her eyes, her lip wanted to quiver and shake, and Hermione just wanted curl up into a ball and be left alone. Her parents just told her that she could no longer be Hermione.

Who was she without her knowledge?

*********

Dumbledore sighed as he read through some of the financial reports concerning the up coming year for Hogwarts. They still required a professor for the Defense of the Dark Arts position, and all of his searches had come up empty handed. Then it came to ensuring the loans were paid off properly, for hosting an event such as the previous year was expensive. Despite all the rumormongering that occurred about him, Albus Dumbledore was no thief. The money that he had earned throughout his life came from hardwork and pride. Yes, there was the greater good, what good of it was when what you have been given or taken means nothing, something that he may have forgotten. There was not a single handout received or given in the name of Hogwarts. They found ways for those who could not pay who wish to attend to pay, or ensured that at the very least, they would attend other school.

Very much so, Hogwarts, School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, was meant to be a place of the self-made man. So what went wrong.

The past fourteen years have been about the Greater Good, ever since the death of the Potters, the attacks that Voldemort had perpetuated had ceased and life was returning to normal. In his joy and his pride that things have returned to a type of normal, Dumbledore forgot to look at who and how he was protecting. In his haste to ensure that they would succeed, he pushed aside the idea of the self-made man, and in his need to justify what he had done, Dumbledore focused on the Greater Good, a concept that his dear friend Gilbert once talked about and lived by. A concept his father had taught him.

With a wave of his hand, he opened the passage to his personal quarters and study. There, maybe he could find a spell the wizarding world did not know of yet, hopefully find the location of Harry Potter.

War is a terrible thing, and during the the first Blood War, few knew of what Dumbledore did, few could have comprehended it and the magic he had cast. There was no light or darkness in the world, maybe positive and negative, but certainly no wanded spell that reflected that dichotomy. Maybe that was the price he paid in protecting a world not his own.

Before he was born, his family moved to the England before it had a proper name as a means of escaping persecution from the magical world. Wanded ones were dangerous, they said, they didn't understand why somethings were just not done. Their family was one of the strongest supporters of the wanded magic, as well as Myrrdin himself. And it wasn't that the Dumbledores could use wanded magic, in fact, they were simply low level mages of their own, book-learned and all that. Their magic wasn't innate like most wanded, but nevertheless, threw their lot with this new breed of magic as a means of protecting the rights of all.

So they were banished from the realm of gebrochen über einen Sternenhimmel, the largest and most central realm of northern Europe's magical society. Subsequent banishes came when the Italian realm, Terra Central, and Russian kingdom, located out in Siberia(which wasn't a barren frozen waste land as many believed) heard of this news. The only place left to go was the Isle of Britannia, where some of the wanded ones were forming their own realm, where Merlyn himself would be.

This was all prior to the rise and fall of the Pendragon dynasty, but it had ever lasting effects on the world. Three new realms rose up that day, one in Romania, one in France, the third in England. A new history was formed, and both sides agreed they would be better off not knowing each other. In fact, a pact was signed, the Myrrdin Proclamations, in order to ensure the hidden nature of each group. And the Dumbledores went into seclusion. In the 11th century, the wanded magic society had found its home, for the moment.

For nearly two hundred years, the family simply hide itself out of fear of retribution. But in hiding, their knowledge and understanding grew. Sadly though, this obsession with knowledge also almost imparted the downfall of his family. By the time Albus was born in the late 18th century, his father was lost in his own knowledge and his mother was left to care for him. That did not stop his father from attempting to ensure the continuance of his line, when he realized that Albus had no desire to take over the family and its legacy. Like his father, Albus was obsessed with knowledge, and his natural intelligence allowed him to grow and expand the family grimores quicker than before. Since his life was obsessed with books, his father decided that a heir more suited to the survival of the family would be important. His brother was born some twenty years later, when clearly Aberforth was following the path of his brother, albeit in an opposite manner, Percival Dumbledore decided enough was enough.

Aberforth had not found knowledge to be as seductive as Albus did, rather he found the opposite. His brother, like some of his family, fled the idea of being stuck in a learning environment for the rest of his life. The brothers were friends because of their differences, not in spite of them, each bringing out the best. When their mother had their sister, each was happy to see a new Dumbledore bless this world, and maybe that their father would get off their back. But within a few years, they could see something was wrong.

Magic had its price. Where Albus Dumbledore was man of learning, focused on his own inward exploration, and Aberforth was a man of learning, focused on his own outward exploration, their sister, Adrina, was caught in the world of both. In an effort to ensure that the next Dumbledore would succeed in their father's perverted delusion of what was needed for the Dumbledore family, he attacked his wife, forcing himself on her, and magicking the conception. So Adrina was everything he wanted. The price, though, was that she was everything he wanted. Adrina was opened to the world in ways that people should never be, her mind unable to close itself and prevent the constant deluge of information of everything.

Percival Dumbledore had made his daughter a Learner of the highest order, one who couldn't control her power and would be forced to live a life alone and by herself, lost in her knowledge.

Aberforth was away when Albus discovered what had happened. Their mother was bed bound for the past few years, another price of the magic, while their father was attending to ensure the future of their line, unable to look on any of his failures. Albus was attempting to bring his sister to dinner, one their cook had prepared for her sixth birthday, but she would not come. She just sat there, eyes staring off into space out of the corner of her eye, swaying back and forth. She recoiled at a touch, as though the simple pressure was just too much. With a closing of his eyes and reopening them, Albus could see the magic running through and into her. The streams of magic just pouring into her, unable to stop and always moving, deeper and deeper. The nature of whatever happened, prevented her death, prevented the dangers of a Learners power.

In his anger, Albus confronted his mother. In his haste, he attacked his father, demanding punishment for the sins the man brought upon his family. That day, was the day the wanded community was introduced to the Dumbledore family. History tells us that his father was killed in Azkaban for the torture and murder of three Muggle boys. His story however, is much different.

The Dumbledores, where once weak and pitiful mages of the lowest kind, had grown and developed into strong-willed and powerful wizards. Their magic was learned, but they required only a focus to cast through, something of their own creation. Percival's was a wand, while Albus preferred a staff.

A flash of light was all the world saw, and a conversation about Albus, a mere ten year-old child, confronting his father concerning an attack on . But for Percival and Albus, the battle lasted days, much longer than his with Gellert. A war of wills, magic, and souls, and in the end, Albus was left standing over his stunned father, waiting for the police to come and get it. When asked why he did what he did, Percival could only answer, for the Greater Good of the Dumbledore family, something that he, Albus, would never understand.

Albus took his father's name in his own, as a way of remember what had happened, and remembering how the Greater Good could and would destroy what people held dear the most. History from then on was as people said, though he could do no magic through the wand they placed with him. The death of his mother, the return home the temptation of power and of Gellert, the death of his sister by possibly his own hand. The life of a Dumbledore was filled with chaos, often for the worse. In the end, with Harry Potter, he returned to his father's Greater Good. It was probably the only way he could stay sane, at the moment.

He took a seat in his favorite armchair, and sighed heavily. All two-hundred and twenty some-odd years weighed heavily on him. But justification of a horrible act does not negate the horrible act.

"Albus?" Minerva called to him. He knew she was up in his office, and would probably see his inner sanctum. But he was tired of the secrets. For too long, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore lied about who he was for the sake of an image that people wanted. That the foolish world wanted. And it was his fault. He could hear her walking through the corridor into his little home away from home, where he really slept and stored all the things that truly mattered to him. Like the simple old portrait of his family, when they were young and unaware.

"I have been blinded by my choices, my dear." He sat heavily in his chair, unable to move under the weight of his guilt. Magic made it so.

"What do you mean?" she asked. The fact that she had not asked yet about this room meant more than anything to him. Her respect and love of the old man in him almost made him feel like a kid again.

"Everything for the past thirty years, from Voldemort's raise to this current situation, is my fault." Dumbledore was impressed by his second in command of the school's ability to remain silent at the speaking of the Dark Lord's name.

"Surely you can't-"

"Tom Riddle was nothing more than a boy looking for some place to belong. And though, for a brief, fleeting moment, he found it here. It was Hogwarts and my inactions that ultimate spurned him into the beast that he is today."

"Albus," Minerva placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling steel behind the cloths, though she was unsurprised. Shoulders that hold the world must be strong to do so. "You can't think like that. What good does remembering only the bad do? You are not the cause of that horrible creature's actions. He and he alone is."

"Ah, but there in lies the problem," his eyes focused instead on the fire that had died out from the night before.

"Albus, I hate to intrude-"

"You are already here, so intruding would not be an issue. Besides, I left the door open. It is reasonable to think that I wanted company here."

"What is here, exactly?"

"Here, is the only home I have known since the destruction of Dumbledore Manor in Grindelwald's reign of terror."

"You were just a teacher then. How can this room be yours if it's in the Headmaster's office."

"Minerva, the answer is as simple as what we ask our students to preform every day." Albus stood up and walked over to a cabinet that attempted to hide itself in the wall. "This room was one of my own creation, a place where I could be myself and not have to worry about the outside world. This is also the first time in many years I have been down here." He opened up the doors after a second and a massive liquor cabinet filled side to side, top to bottom. Minerva did not recognize most of the brands that she could see, but Albus closed it quickly before she could see anything else within it.

He brought two tumblers and a bottle of something over to two chairs, where one was before, and a table. "Sit down and let me tell you a story."

"A story?" she smirked. "And just what kind of story would this be?" Minerva had been a friend for many years, and sometimes he felt could be more. Albus was not one for labels, though in the past they served him alright. Now was a time to start removing the labels that the wanded culture gave him, and maybe find something that fit him better. There was no label for the relationship of him and Gellert, and he doubted that there was between Minerva and him.

"One that probably doesn't have a happy ending." He did not return the smile, but poured each of them a full glass of the finest Celestial whiskey he owned.

For the next few hours, Albus explained the past to the woman who he knew longer than most people. He meet her when she was a student, but did not get to know who she was until she took over his position. Her features slowly decayed from the strict disciplinarian into a woman who had seen and experienced loss like he had. Who had felt pain and had, in the end, been a source of pain.

They sat in silence, the truth joining them and offering nothing but honest and bare words. Albus released some things into the world that he had held back for too long, secrets that only he and he alone kept. But in the end, the caged bird sings of things that it can not have but knows it should, and the caged and barred heart sings of things it can not have but knows it should. For the first time in his two hundred plus years of existence, he spoke of who he was to someone that he could trust.

Minerva placed her glass on the side-table and reached out to take his hand. With diamonds rolling down his cheek for the first time in over a century, Albus took another in hand for help.

When they reached their home, Hermione wanted to run upstairs and hide in her room, cry in her pillow of the things that she wanted but could not have. Her room was filled with framed reports and projects, all measure the success of her life. One hundred percent and more, that was what she gave to life, and now she could no longer do so. Now Hermione Granger could no longer show the world what she knew, because she couldn't find out what she didn't. She could no longer show the world how smart and intelligent she was, because her greatest gift was her worst feature.

All the words and ideas that once defined her, that people hated about her but she once loved, she hated too. She hated that she was so smart, that her drive and desire to learn, something that other people hated that she was so good at, now cursed her. She wanted to scream and yell, to cry and weep, to hide in shame.

But for the moment, she could do none of that. For the moment, the world was not circling around her, but Harry Potter.

"Dad, you said he would be awake," she said as the Grangers walked into their home. Her mother ran ahead, turning on the lights and clearing the couch. Crookshanks was not amused. "You said he would recover by now."

"Pumpkin," Dan said to his daughter, carrying in the battered body of the comatose boy. "He used a great deal of his magic, and probably more than necessary, just to survive."

"So what, do we need to give him more?" Hermione asked. "Do we need to somehow transfer magic into him? If you could-"

"Hermione, no books." Her mother came back and set some pillows up for Harry. Dan placed the boy onto the couch and quickly he was cocooned in blankets and pillows. The only thing exposed was his face, which looked incredible gaunt and tired. "We can't have you lapsing right now."

"You say it as though I'm addicted." Though her hands did shake from the need to read, Hermione busied herself with fluffing Harry's pillowed to hide the fact. "I'm fine."

"Hun," her mother crouched down and took her daughters hand. Emma Granger wasn't a tall woman, but for the moment, she stared directly into Hermione's eyes. "Every year, I've seen you devour new books like a man starving, only yours is a lack of knowledge. I'll bet you've slowed down your reading just so you don't seem as odd as you could if you simply opened up a book and finished it." Hermione had the decency to remain silent. "The point I'm trying to make, and one you're probably already aware of, is that your life has been about reading and learning. So much so that you really don't know how to live without it. For the moment, we don't know either, and we can't help you. So you need to be strong and stay away from books." Her father stepped out of the room, either to escape the conversation or to help Harry. 

"What am I suppose to do?" she asked, the tears she wanted to shed now threatening to fall. "Just wait patiently while you try to figure out what to do?" Hermione shook her head. "No, I refuse to be idle while you and Dad simply do everything." When would her father get back, maybe he had some new strange text that he needed help with. She should go to him. She could read faster than him and interpret for him. Yeah that would make sense.

"Then it will be on you to control this desire to learn and your magic." Maybe her parents had some books in their living room that could help. It would only take an hour at most to read any that she hadn't finished. 

"Can you Hermione?" Emma asked. "Look at you, your eyes are scanning the room, trying to find the one book that you hadn't read yet. I know you're looking to your father to come back with some new book, maybe you should help him with it. After all a second pair of eyes couldn't hurt." Again her daughter remained quiet, though this time in anger. "No, your life was learning and now it must change. If only for the moment. You need to break your habit before you return to it." Emma wrapped her arms around Hermione and held her daughter close like she had once during a terrible thunderstorm that shook the house. The entire night she cried and shook, and Emma whispered nothing but sweet encouragements about the night, about how the storm couldn't happen. Dan was out working that day, and she was worried about him. Turned out a stormsinger had broken lose of the veil and was attempting to destroy the natural atmosphere so she could replace her own. Dan and a few others were called in to look into fixing the problem. So she stayed at home and took care of their little genius who knew all about the weather and storms but when it came to them, she was just as frightened as anyone else.

Dan came home with ice cream that night, smiling and cheerful, just a hour after the storm had passed. Hermione hugged her father tight and proclaimed that he was the bravest man in the world for braving the storm and that she wished she could be like him.

Maybe this was just a new storm for Hermione and she didn't know how to brave it. She needed someone to show her how it was done, someone she could learn from. Emma figured that during school, Harry was the source and reason for bravery. Hermione was never fearless for herself, but others, especially those who she cared about, she would stand that storm that frightened her so long ago. "It's hard," Hermione whispered into her mothers shoulder, the tears still there.

"I know, honey," Emma replied. "Life throws curve balls and sometimes we have to change things."

"I don't want to." 

"If not for yourself, for Harry." Hermione stiffed briefly before Emma pulled back and looked into her daughters eyes. "You need to focus on him and making him feel comfortable, not better. He'll recover on his own. I seriously doubt that you heard him from the Vatican simply because you two are friends." Hermione blushed and turned to look at Harry. "Whatever your relationship, he needs you and you can't be there if you're lost in your quest for knowledge. I need you to be brave for him." She nodded and wiped the tears away. "Okay, go freshen up while I start dinner for the four of us."

Hermione gave one last look to Harry before rushing out of the living room. Emma stood, smiled at her daughter before heading to the kitchen, where he husband was looking through a potions grimore, threatening it with a rather dull pair of scissors if it wouldn't give up what he needed. The book refused and shut itself on Dan. "Now dear, you know better than to threaten the books." 

"Stupid thing won't give me the recipe." Dan glared at the grimore, which he would have sworn was chuckling.

"For what?" Emma asked. "A new potion for Harry or something? You know you're horrible at potions and alchemy."

"No, dinner." Dan looked away.

"Ah, wanted to surprise you old girl?" His wife put the now laughing grimore away and started pulling out things required for dinner. They would set a fourth place, next to Hermione. In all that has happened, maybe it was important to know just why this boy was so important to Hermione, even if she didn't know herself. Especially with how devoted she was to him. 

"You're not old." Emma glared at him. "What?"

"You know very well that I've been aware longer than than anyone on this planet."

"That doesn't make you old." Emma ignored her husband as she started to cut up some vegetables. "Hun, you're not old. You've been alive for twenty some odd years. You made a choice to become alive. You made a choice." Dan wrapped his arms around his wife. "You choose to join me here, despite all that I've done, and made me better for it. We're better for it." He kissed her neck and pulled her close. He continued for a bit, until his wife relaxed and calmed down. Dan kept kissing her neck, nibbling every once in a while until Emma giggled and turned in her husband's arms.

"Again with my parents sex life." Hermione stood in the doorway. She had changed into a rather big sweater and pulled her hair into a tight ponytail. "I'm gonna go back to Harry, watch some tele since I can't read."

"No educational programs." Hermione grumbled but didn't disagree. Emma watched her daughter sulk away. "I hate this."

"I know, but the recipe calls for it." Dan added a pinch of thyme. "I don't understand, but this should taste fine in the end."

"That's now what I'm talking about hun."

"Maybe more salt." Dan looked back at the recipe, reading through it and ignoring his wife.

"Dan, I am talking to you," she said, "This is important." She gripped her husband and spun him around 

"And so is dinner, which is something that we can solve now. The problem that you're seeing is one that doesn't have a solution. We know nothing about Hermione's condition, and certainly even less about how to help her overcome it. And besides all of that, we need a break. We need to take a breathe and relax." Dan grinned as though he had robed a candy shop blind. "Do you know what we did today?"

"Helped a criminal escape from the-"

"No," he replied. "Well, yes, but no, not that. We took on the Vatican and won."

"What's so special about that?"

"Of all places that I've been, that hellhole was probably the second worst. Never once has I have ever been able to stick it to those lawful stupid assholes. For fifty years before I even met you, hun, they had been bossing me around, demanding things with almost no payment. And now-"

"Now you've had your fun."

"Yep," Dan threw a pinch of something into the pan and there was a slight poof of smoke.

Emma glared at her husband. "What did you just add?"

With the same smirk that he had when he rescued Harry, Dan replied. "I have no idea."

Author's note:

Standard Disclaimer applies. Enjoy this chapter and please leave me a review if you disagree with my opinions in a polite manner :_) - all in all, just enjoy what I'm trying to create.

Previous Chapter:

Why is green so important in Harry Potter, after JK Rowling constantly calls attention to his green eyes and the green color of the Avada Kedavra. In turn, that color is going to be important here in this story.

Ever hear about the Nightside, just curious...

This Chapter:

I'm attempting to bring some logic to magic, which isn't fun. So with Hermione, and Dumbledore in this chapter, I've introduce even more types of magic (Learners and mages). I hope to conclude this pattern soon, at least one more chapter or so with Ron and the Weasleys, then touch some other things. I still intend to show who messed with Hermione and where all of this is headed. Above all, this is a Harry Potter story, albiet where I try to destroy some notions about magic.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" His mother's voice echoed throughout the Burrow. Anger was almost natural in the Weasley household. Something that Ron learned when he was rather young, with his mother yelling and screaming at his brothers for whatever they did, for anything, for everything, they did. Some days, he felt that she would yell if it was too quiet, just because she did not like the silence. Whatever the reason, Ron grew up in a home where his mother was angry.

But that did nothing to explain what he was feeling now. The life he grew up in, the anger and frustration that built up, every explosion and fire the twins made, every time he failed to do what she asked for, the desires and wants of his sister, the leaving of his brothers (all of them in the end) and his father, who was the silent stone against the firestorm. His family had that slow anger, and large burn, that could destroy friendships and lives if the family myths were to believed. No, what Ron was feeling right now had nothing to do with his family or friends. His jealous and envy of Harry Potter did not spark the rage, or the fire that was stoked every time he fought with Hermione Granger over the most foolish of things.

The fire that was him had nothing to do with anything he had experienced before.

Ron Weasley was mad, in the most simplest of terms, and he did not know why. His belly burned harder and longer than anything he had felt before; his heart raced and raced, flying as fast as a Firebolt, until there was nothing else but the beating of his heart that swarmed in his ears. His body was hot, his eyes watered, and his hands twitched. In the middle of the forest surrounding the Burrow and the land they still held, Ron knelt in the mud, holding back the roar within his ears, his burning heartbeat.

He screamed at the heavens, yelling profanities that frightened the woodland creatures around them. Then he would clenched and unclenched his fists over and over again, in lieu of nothing else, just kneeling in the silence. The anger was coursing through him, racing through every vein and artery it could, trying to fill his entire body, until nothing was left but anger and Hate.

But Ron Weasley was not as weak as people saw him. There was a reason why he flew off at the handle as often as he did, a reason why he was volatile and borderline violent at times, quick to judge and slower to forget. It was because he was anger, as much as he could be. Every slight, every cast of doubt and action against, he felt that burn grow. With each beat of his pounding heart, he was dying, but Ron Weasley was not weak. He slowed his breath, in quickly but a four count to exhale. In and then slow out. In and the slowout. Slowly, he let the anger smolder itself out, feeling only the ashes that remained. Ashes that never disappeared, the heat just underneath everything, always compounding.

He Hated Voldemort the Death Eaters for what they did to his friend, the pain they put him through. He Hated Vicky Krum for taking Hermione away from him, when he was just starting to show her how wonderful a person he was, how he could take care of her. Ron Hated Hermione for siding with Harry throughout all of this, never even giving him a second glance and running off and helping the Boy-Who-Lived. And worst of all, despite every reason not to, Ron Hated Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the youngest seeker in one hundred years of Hogwarts history. Harry Potter, the boy who killed a basilisk by himself with a sword. Harry Potter, the summoner of a Patroni so powerful to defeat dozens and dozens of Dementors. Harry Potter, the youngest winner of the Tri-Wizard Championship and a thousand galleons. Ron had no real reason to Hate him, no real reason to be angry at his best mate. But he was, and the anger whispered into his ears all the jealous thoughts he didn't want to think about.

Ron was jealous of everything that was Harry Potter, the money, the fame, the power. Yet, he knew he shouldn't be, for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. The more powerful the action, the stronger the reaction. And Ron's Hate and anger ran deep.

Now, with the knowledge that Harry was possibly a devil or at least involved in devil-nature, the anger took over. It was all a rumor, but rumors travel quicker than the truth, and are at least fifty percent true. Harry betrayed him, turning to the Darkness for some strange reason.

There was a little known fact of the Weasleys, something that didn't travel around because if anyone talked about it, they simply would not believe it. But Arthur Weasley was once one of the premiere demon and devil hunters of the U.K., if not the world, until an accident sent him home to work in the Misuse of Muggle Items Department. Now, he had trained his son to track and defeat the only true danger of the wizarding world. Voldemort, a name he now no longer feared, had nothing to compare to demons and devils, and now his friend was conspiring with them. Ron learned the truth and found a focus to his anger and Hate, focusing all his being during those training sessions onto the horrible devils and demons, the anger creating great power in him, allowing him to survive so much more. Ron could focus on what terrible and horrible and wonderful things those abominations were capable of committing, and the Hate took over. With the news of what Harry was, for the first time, he had a reason to Hate his friend.

The fire raged and flew, higher and higher, but Ron kept his voice down this time, trying to hold back the tears from pain and sadness, maybe even hatred of himself for his betraying thoughts. He knelt alone in the forest, dealing with the pain of the betrayal. Why hadn't Harry told him about this? Why hadn't his friend spoken up about seeking the true Dark Arts. Ron could have helped him, turned his friend away from the Darkness and back into the Light. And now, everyone was still was seeking him, trying to find the Golden Boy. Even his own father was fooled by Harry. Is fooled. Everyone just doesn't see the fact that here is the Great Harry Potter, the dabbler of the true Dark Arts, the one who will bring down-

Stop it, he screamed in his head. The anger and the Hate tore at him, threatening to make him think things that weren't true. Yes, Ron Weasley was jealous of Harry, but he did not know why; there were explanations in his mind, things to justify the Hate he held in his heart, but the truth prevented him from accepting it so easily.

He screamed once, and the heat flared around him. His eyes were closed and he couldn't see what was going on around him. All that mattered was his heart and his heart were battling, neither side refusing to give in. He couldn't hurt Harry, no matter what his heart told him about all the sins committed against him. That was just the anger and jealous and Hate talking, lying to him.

"Lay off the curry." Ginny's voice came out of the forest. Ron kept his eyes closed, his fists clenched.

"Bug off, Gin," he said, his voice a low tremble of the earth. Ron couldn't look up, or move even.

"Dad wants a family meeting." She was taking steps closer. Ten meters, then nine. The training he had with his dad was all the world difference. He could tell these things: how she was standing, what mood she was in, her interactions with her environment. All of these he learned as part of the demon hunter training. "Says its important."

"I'll be there in a moment." He said. The anger was roaring now, his walls barely holding them back. The emotions were too much.

"Dealing with things?"

"He lied to me," Ron replied.

"Harry?" Ginny shrugged, either physically or it was just a verbal pause, Ron couldn't see the difference at the moment. "I doubt the Tri-Wizard-"

"This has nothing to do with that!" Ron yelled, and spat out blood. He coughed for a second then tried to slow down his heart rate. He needed to do this. He needed to be under control. A hunter was under control of their emotions at all times, aware and able to defuse the situation. He will be a hunter. He will be better than his father, and greater than an Harry Potter Boy-Who-Lived anywhere. Ron Weasley will- "Stop it!" he spat blood out again, not bothering to clean it off his lip. "Just stop it! No more! No! More!"

"Ron?" There was worry in her voice now; he could smell the fear and the anguish. Her brother was in pain and there was nothing she could do. "You okay?" Sympathy, no empathy. How could she know this anger? How could his sweet little sister, innocent in so many ways, though almost broken by the so-called Dark Lord Voldemort.

"Get away, Gin," Ron slowly climbed to his feet, taking care not to move quickly or the fire would burst forth and consume the world around him. He was stronger than the Hate, than the anger. He could control. He, Ron Bilius Weasley, was greater than this. Not even Harry Potter could control this anger, this Hate.

"Ron?" She took another step closer. Hate and anger were not the focus now. But fear in Ron's eyes; he was afraid of what he could, would, do to his baby sister. He sweat now, his hands shook and he almost whimpered. The fear, that yellow, bellowing fear gripped his heart so quickly that it put out the fire within him. The Hate smoldered out, dying quickly. It would remain, the ashes holding up in his heart, waiting for the right moment to return. Ginny placed a hand on his shoulder, and pulled it back, hissing in pain. "You're burning up."

He stood up slowly, grunting as his dead legs took his weight again. How long had he been out in the woods. "I'm better now." Ron opened his eyes and smiled at his sister. "So what's this about Dad?" The Hate was silent for the moment, defeated in the fear of harming his sister. Maybe that's all it took, he thought, a strong emotion to defeat another.

He placed an arm around his wary sister and lead her back to the Burrow, idly talking about the Cannons season and arguing friendly over who would win or lose. Neither talked about the scenery, choosing that it was better to ignore what had happened out the woods then try to bring meaning to the world. Not when there were more important things to deal with, like dinner and the family meeting.

Where Ron knelt before was a wide circle of burnt grass, swirled around the eye and funneled upward, where the trees were pushed back and lit on fire. Some still burned but without the magical source to burn them, the wet woods just put themselves out again. If one would stand in the eye of this magical ground, for the anger and Hate that Ron Weasley had would allow nothing else but a new focal point to form, and look up, they would the Sun burning brightly, goading them. The Sun would always be above, matter what time day, even when it set. But only at the center, and only if the magical being evoked the great anger and Hatred. For what fire burned hotter, longer and brighter than that of the Sun?

********

Hermione continued to watch the Saturday morning cartoons, on the couch with Harry's head in her lap. He hadn't woken up yet, but she had hope that he would soon. Two days had past since the whole Vatican experience, and honestly, Hermione was just bored. TV could only do so much. Her dad offered to go out and buy one of the new video game systems that the muggle kids at the office were constantly raving about, but that wouldn't do much for the boredom. She appreciated the offer, but it would just be more useless things to do while she waited for her parents to figure out a solution, which only added to her dislike of the whole situation.

Her parents returned to work, which seemed odd, but Emma swore the best way to hide something is to act as if you don't have to, and there was no reason to continue to stay at home. Her father had increased the wards around the house, and as long as they weren't drawing attention to themselves, ie no magic for everyone, then no one should be looking for them.

The grandfather clock they had rung a deep eight times, and Hermione sighed as she began to channel surf. There was nothing to do. Her anxiety about Harry had subsided a bit, but now she just wished something would happen out of boredom. Normally, she would have worked on her homework when she was home alone, but with her parents stealing her books of all things, Hermione was left with no choice but to sit quietly and watch the telly. "Over two hundred channels and nothing on," she grumbled and continued to look for something, anything to hold her attention.

Harry shifted again, and burrowed his head deeper into her lap. He had been doing that for a while now, so Hermione hoped that he was just sleeping instead of being unconscious. She ran her fingers through his unruly hair for the twentieth time since she woke up. Not that she was keeping track or anything. Maybe it was time for breakfast, or really second breakfast since she had something light when her parents woke up at six. Hermione tried to stand up, but an arm shot out from under the covers and held her down. "You move, I bite," Harry muttered.

"Cheeky aren't you?" She asked. Less than a second of him being awake and she aware of it, and Hermione and Harry were back in their easy pattern of tongue and cheek conversation.

"M'be," he said, burying his head further into her lap. Hermione giggled but sat still. "I just want to sleep s'more."

"Those are summer snacks, Harry," Hermione smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. Harry's face was staring at her legs, his eyes hiding themselves in her lap, an arm wrapped around her waist. She wanted to see his face, to ask him all about what happened, for him to spill his secrets and give her the knowledge she so desired about the enigma in her lap. But for the moment, she would just have to be content with the Boy-Who-Lived who wanted nothing more than her, granted as a pillow, but she could deal with that.

"So?"

"So," she reached down and turned him around. The arm left her waist and covered his eyes. "That's not what you want, unless you want a messy bed."

"Why would you have a messy bed?" He didn't pull his arm away from his face. "I just want s'more sleep." Hermione giggled and tried to remove his arm so she could see his face that he was trying to hide.

"Because it involves melted marshmallows and chocolate - tell you what?"

"What?"

"If you stop being so difficult, I'll show you." Harry pulled his arm away, and Hermione smiled at the Boy-Who-Lived, though boy would be a misnomer. He lost all that boyish charm that his face held in the past, the only face she could see in the haze of her mind. His black hair was much longer than before, and stuble attempted to disguise his distinguished cheek bones and chin. He could be chiseled from stone in a couple years, as the rest of the baby fat slide off of his face, though there wasn't much left. Whatever happened had dissolved everything weak about him. And his eyes.

Where she could see the green pools in her mind's eye, now they stared at her with such intensity that they were suns stored in his body. Harry had changed in the past few weeks; everything that had hurt, the pain she could just imagine that he felt and went through. His home was destroyed, a knife plunged into his chest, tortured in an insane place, and then saved her from herself.

What did she look like to him? Her depression pounced on her at the oddest of times, and now of all them, she could only see herself as the empty shell she was. No books, no knowledge, no Hermione Granger. What would Harry see: the tired eyes, the frizzy, unkempt hair, the skin and bones that she was. Her greatest power, the Learner skill had doomed her, and there was nothing she could do. A gift granted so swiftly had destroyed her so easily in return. In saving Harry, she cursed herself; though maybe it was finally time to return the favor he did so long ago. What was the saying: a life for a life? Was her debt finally filled? If so, maybe then-

Harry reached up and touched her face with his smooth hands, his thumb wiping away a tear that escaped her. "You should smile more, 'mione," He whispered, his voice dry and almost cracking.

"Don't call me that."

He ignored her and continued on. "Certainly never cry. Who made you cry?" Hermione shook her head and her hair fell to hide her face and her sadness. "Was it me? Did I do this? I'm so sorry, I tried so hard to make sure you never were hurt? Did I fail you?" Tears were forming in his eyes now.

"You could never-"

But Harry was persistent. "Please tell me what I did that hurt you so, what I failed to do and brought so much suffering in you? Please, 'mione, tell me."

Hermione smiled and leaned down, brushed the tears from his eyes and kissed his forehead. "A; don't call me Mione, and b; you are a saint, Harry James Potter, and never let anyone tell you otherwise." She sat back up, her sadness suppressed for the moment if nothing else because of his genuine concern. "Sleep, my sweet prince," she said. "Sleep and everything will be okay tomorrow." Once again, he saved her, even if from herself. Harry's nature left no dishonesty in him, not to her. Physically, he may have changed, but mentally, he was still the boy who would jump onto the troll, no matter how big or how strong it was, just for her.

"Tonight," He said, closing his eyes and putting out the suns, "Tonight, you're father is going to help me perform a ritual."

"What ritual?" Knowledge? Knowledge was good.

"One I need if I'm going to wake up tomorrow, 'mione," He said, and rolled back into her lap. "Sleep now, talk later." Harry was still in danger? She couldn't let that happen. Not after all that had they had gone through just to save him.

"I'll tell my dad, and stop calling me that," She smiled, despite her tone, and let him curl into her like a cat.

"Okay, 'mione," Harry mumbled, turned to his side. "I'll try to remember that."

Hermione picked up the remote and returned to her channel surfing, second breakfast forgotten. Harry was awake, he was aware, and most important, he didn't want to go anywhere. She would get her answers later, but for now, her friend, best friend really, maybe even only friend, wanted to sleep on her. The little girl, who fantasized about being with prince charming who would sweep her off her feet, who she hadn't let out in so long and finally returned in full blast since her father removed whatever was in her, had no problem with her current situation. After all, a girl can dream can't she?

********

Her father brought home a video game system, despite Hermione's requests not to, that night. Even if she never played it, at least he could enjoy it, maybe even find a new addiction that he could slip past his wife. She didn't allow smoking or some of his other vices when they got together, but it was worth it. Rumor had it that the computers and this internet thing would be the brand new phenomena to deal with, maybe he could find something on that as well.

But all of that was just a distraction, and right now, he did not need them. His daughter was attacked some time ago, and they were just learning the consequences. Hermione awoke her latent powers as though a dam had exploded and all the water flooding down towards the valley. The Learner in her was so strong and the time spent not thinking about what danger she was in was very limited, in fact only when he saw this playstation did he stop thinking about it and smiled for the first time that day.

Dan smiled as he walked through the door, thinking of something new to play on that new video game system, but paused when he noticed his wife and Harry were sitting at the table discussing something. Hermione was nowhere to be seen. Emma arrived home much earlier than him, stating the need to prepare dinner and check on Hermione. Dan saw nothing wrong with that: Emma was a more than competent magic user, if not down right scary in her knowledge of truenames. The home was warded against intrusions and extrusions of all dimensions thanks to some handy work done in return for a favor(one could never prepare enough against the old ones). And above all, he trusted Hermione not to act like a hormone driven girl with a boy in her home.

No, the fact that Emma was spending time with Harry, who miraculously recovered today, and not their daughter worried him. Had something happened to Hermione? Did she disobey him and try to read and figure out what was wrong with her? Did she go exploring her mind or the rooms he had forbidden her? There was so much danger inherent in magic that to go off by oneself could mean disastrous results.

"Em's? Is everything okay?" Dan placed the bags down in the front hall closet, quickly removing his coat and shoes.

"Of course," She replied, though her back turned to him, Dan could hear the smile on her face. "Harry and I were discussing some mathematical equations for the upcoming ritual you promised him that night in the hospital." And hence the smile. Dan never revealed what exactly had happened in the hospital room when Dr. Stevens had arrived and demanded a payment, or what had occurred when Dan refused to pay the horrible price that was demanded. Did Harry tell his wife what he was or what Dr. Stevens thought he was? The woman, while a Fallen angel, did not mean she consorted with devils and demons; her hatred of them was still strong as the day when they first meet.

Harry looked healthy, though his hair was long and clumpy as the shirt he wore was one of Dan's old ones that he had loaned when Harry first arrived. It was too large for the boy, and he could see the scars of his past carved into his upper back and neck. The boy was tortured, though these were old, very old. Either Harry was subject to some pretty horrific things when he was very little or he developed a fantastic healing system from thin air.

"I was meaning to tell you, dear," Dan said, slowly entering the kitchen. On every surface possible were papers, tapped up or even pinned to the drywalls, of mathematical equations and designed, including various circles. "I mean..." He couldn't stop looking at them, even reaching up and touching a few of them. Dan Granger was no mathematician, or even a ritualist, but he could see some of what was trying to accomplished. Though if he was reading it right-

"Don't touch," Emma slapped his hand away. "I spent thirty minutes getting them in a order that made sense to anyone besides Harry here." Dan pulled his hand back from one of the papers, shocked that his wife hit him outside of the bedroom.

"What is this?"

"A binding ritual," Harry said proudly. "Figured to occupy my time since there was nothing on the telly and this needed to be done anyway."

"One that is more complicated than need be," Emma replied. "We've been trying to reduce it down so either you or I could preform it."

"It's not that complicated-"

"Harry, you would have us speaking in a dialect that won't exist for another ten thousand years. Not mention how long we'd would have to chant, it'd be Boxing Day before we'd be done."

"So?" Emma glared at the boy, and at least he had the decency to look sheepish. "Made sense at the time."

"Probably only you and Hermione would think it made sense," Emma stood up and walked over to the fridge door, where a series of runes were recorded. "Now, we were discussing these. What are they exactly?"

"Ummm..."

"Harry," Dan said, "Do you have any idea what you've done?" If he was reading it correctly, this would probably be the complex ritual ever for binding, but also, the most efficient. He knew of some, to bind willing and unwilling people. Most of them were simply to prevent people from harming other people, for better or worse. But Harry's ritual took those to the next level; he sought a way to control and limit how much power was being put out at all times, as though the bindee was the one in control, not the binder.

"Ummm..." The boy looked around at all the papers. He really had no clue. "It's a binding ritual."

"And this make sense to you?" Dan asked.

"Yes. Everything here has its purpose, I just am having a hard time remember what purpose was exactly when I wrote it." Emma glared at Harry again. "Look, at least the math makes sense, everything else is a bit odd-"

"A bit?" Emma replied. "Harry, you have Mayan runes with Odinic script and Taoism-based chants and Lord knows what else, and is that... Yes that's demonic tongue. What in the name of Him could possible require that?"

"The binding of power, of course," Harry said. He stood up and walked over to the runes. "These are meant to hold the power in a subspace container while the flood gates are opened so to speak. They are also to regulate the flow of power, so that it isn't a flood gate opening up." he walked over to some of the written language portion. "While this is to ensure the bindee does not suffocate while the ritual is preformed as that power is vacuumed out, along with everything else, along with ensuring that the power is returned completely to where it belongs, packed nicely." Harry pointed to the ceiling. "While those designs, runes and words are simply to ensure the binder doesn't absorb the power and kill themselves."

"Harry, it can't be done." Emma sat back down, exhausted as if she was having the conversation for the fiftieth time. "You can't combine-" Harry grabbed a sheet of paper covered in scribbles and numbers and turned it over. Emma watched as the boy wrote and drew and designed quickly. He finished one page than grabbed another one, repeating the process. In the end, he finished with five papers, covered with new script and math.

"Its not as eloquent and certainly will be more painful for me, but this is what you want isn't it? Nothing new or better, something familiar?" Harry said, handing her the papers. "This is the language and the ideas and the concepts that you hold so dear that you can't let go and see that there is more, right? We spent over an hour talking after you finished reading my work, saying you understood. If you understood, you would have seen how and why its set up the way it was." Emma was silent as she read, her eyes focused on the paper. "But you couldn't because it contradicted everything you ever knew about magic, about the rules of the world, about the rules of life. If you told me over a month ago, I'd seen and done things that I have, I'd say it was impossible. That this is impossible. That my life was impossible."

"I'm going to go lay down now, and hopefully, my body doesn't explode what I'm trying to hold back at the moment. I need this, and if that is the only way you will help me, the only way you can comprehend to help me, then fine. Just tell me if I get to live to see another day." Harry walked away from the table, and threw himself onto the couch. The telly turned on and the news could be heard in the background.

Dan walked over to his wife, her eyes focused on the pages, reading them and rereading them. "Hun?" he said, placing a hand on her shoulders.

"Bastard," she replied softly, wiping a tear from her eye. "He's a right bastard alright, even to suggest this."

"What is it?"

"Angelic binding," she said, placing the pages on the table. A Word of Power and the rest of the papers disappeared, leaving only the few before her. "Instead of what he suggested, the impossible ritual, he wants to do an angelic binding to himself. And not just any binding either."

"I remember you talking about them, what's so-"

"Dan, the pain of doing so, even with his modifications, that I still don't think is possible, isn't felt on this level of existence, and at the power level he's asking to bind, which I don't, can't, believe he has, he's liable to burn himself out complete, a husk forever. This ritual was meant to bind a being like I was before."

"Oh," Dan said. That meant his wife knew about what happened in the hospital room, and how this whole thing started.

"Yes oh. And you knew, didn't you, you willing brought a devil into my home, and endanger my daughter."

"He's not a devil."

"He sure as well has the blood of the Fallen in him. That's what Dr. Stevens wanted, am I right, for you to kill like you did before. He's a Cursed Line. And that power is threatening to consume him, it's why he can't wait." She wiped another tear away. His wife was torn, Dan could see that.

Thousands of thousands of years before they met, Emma, the closest pronunciation he could make of her name, was an Angel, a being forged by the will of a higher being, much higher than anything the human knew of, even she couldn't explain what exactly created her. She was formed after the second Angelic War. Until they met, she said she was told, not asked, to do terrible things, that disobeying wasn't even an option she had.

He was hoping that this would be a simple lie of omission, something that he wouldn't have to tell her. They had their secrets between each other, secrets they never asked about. It's what made their relationship work. This would have been another one. But if she was so distraught over even helping a child with devil's blood in it, the promise he made be damned.

"Then we won't, hun." He said, wrapping his arms around her, whispering softly in her hair. "If it's too much, then we'll just-"

"Don't you dare say that!" She stood up and pushed her husband away. "Don't you dare say that again. I will not allow another child to die because of that that that stupid law, because they believe he can't be saved. I won't kill one if it can be avoided. Never again. Never again, Dan." They weren't talked about Harry any more, but Dan didn't say that. He knew what it would cost his wife just for going against that law she hated so much she fell. He would never believe it was just for him that she gave up paradise. The price to fall was too much that not even love could make someone Fall. Angels and humans have been together for centuries, and rarely would one Fall just because of love. No, she chose to step down from paradise because she no longer believed in what they were selling, not after the night that nearly cost Dan his soul and Emma her existence. "Never again."

"Then what dear, this is your call, you know more about this than I do." Emma sniffed and wiped some her tears away. She couldn't stop shaking but Dan didn't dare step closer as much as he wanted. Emma was created as something so great and powerful that it was more than most people could comprehend. Despite being human now, something that was so different as to compare the complexity of a human versus a virus, she was still that great and powerful being inside her soul. To willing help a spawn of the devil, no matter how far down the line, was against everything that Emma was.

Magic had its cost. This was it, at least for Emma. When she was created, she was more than human, and now as human, she still was more. That more prevented her from doing so much, despite the enjoyment she received as a human. Falling hurt her deeper than she ever told him, and she missed what she gave up, though as she had said on many occasions, given the choice, she would Fall again. Now, they were seeing the true cost of what her existence as a human meant to her. Free will is something that many don't quite understand until they don't have it. Emma was fighting herself to ensure that she still had hers.

In the past, Emma had been ordered to kill many spawn of the Lightbringer, for they were dangerous and threatened mankind and Earth if they were allowed to continue to live. It was a job like any other; to her, it made no difference in delivering miracles or slaughtering villages of the damned. Now, as a human, she had a choice, and this was the first time since her Fall did this particular choice present itself. She was perfectible aware of what a fiendish human was capable of, and she was also aware of what would happen if they were allowed to live. But that didn't mean it was a given that Harry would be evil, that he would destroy everything around him because of his nature. She wanted to believe that every mortal had a choice; she had to. Emma was no longer an angel though, she could no longer be ordered to do anything. It had to be her choice: to save or condemn him. Since it was her choice, it should come from her own hand.

Dan's shoulder's slumped, and his heart slowed. There was only two outcomes of this, and he doubted that Hermione would forgive them for either. But, there was no other way.

"Dan," She whispered, her voice tired and cracked. He wasn't sure who was speaking now: the Emma he loved or the one that she was. Either way, he would trust her. Her arms were crossed, holding herself tightly and her head down, unable to look at anything as she turned around.

"Yes Em's?"

"I need you to go get Hermione and take her out."

"What about-"

"There are not many times I ask for this but-" She didn't need to finish. To do something with no questions, to follow the other's lead without regret, without condoning or condemning, without hesitation. That was their promise. That was their love.

"Any place in particular."

"London, somewhere away from here, as far and as fast as you can, non-magically."

"Em's, are you-"

"What I'm going to do will release a backlash and I need you two in a safe distance."

"When can we-"

"You'll know when." She turned around, the fire in her eyes, the decision has been made and she would follow through with unwavering certainty. "Just come home quickly afterwards." Dan couldn't see what choice though, and that worried him.

"We'll leave right now," Dan replied. "Use the basement as its somewhat protected and should shelter you." Emma nodded but didn't move. He swiftly embraced her, his arms wrapped around her tightly and kissed her with all he could muster. It wasn't a goodbye, Dan didn't believe in them, but it was a reassurance to be safe and that he was alive. That she was alive. "Just come back to me."

"Always," Emma said, a smile on her face. "My heart is yours and yours alone. I will be awaiting. my champion, Dan'el Sunmasker, Dreamstealer, of the Red Tide, He who Sings with Moon and Stars."

"And I will return, my soul, Emiztujikdgmuholcytinq-" She placed a finger over her husband's mouth.

"Don't, you never had the tongue for it."

"Sorry."

"I'm not, made some good times with you trying." Dan smirked. He pulled away after one final brief kiss and quickly exited the kitchen, going to find his daughter. They needed to leave now, as Emma would do whatever she needed to once they were gone, but only when they were gone. He just hoped that when he returned, he would find his wife okay, and the boy alive. But he neither was a mind reader or predictor. Emma was a wildcard now, and her choice was hers alone. He'd deal with the backlash when they would return.

Emma stayed in the kitchen as she heard Dan run upstairs, retrieve Hermione and the subsequent argument that followed about her refusal to leave Harry. A few minutes later, two sets of feet ran down the stairs, out the door and Dan's Duesenberg Model A started up. She stood still, waiting until she could no longer hear the car roar through their subdivision, and even then didn't move.

It would be difficult, what Harry asked, especially at the power level he needed. He gave her the Words of Power to do so, and she knew the rest. The first ritual he wrote was needlessly complex, at least to her level of understanding, so the second one would have to work, if that was what she decided should happen. Harry's next few minutes of his life would decide what she would follow through with.

Harry was right when he wrote down that she was afraid of him, that what the ritual would cost her and, more importantly, him. Hers was a simple cost, one of a few seconds of her life, taken from the beginning, not the end. She would lose a few Words of Power, mainly ones that never should be spoken, lest God or the Morningstar be brought to this realm, and even then it was questionable to speak them. No, Harry's cost would be much heavier and a harder burden to bear.

Whispering a series of Words of Power, Emma felt a zone of truth slide into place over the house. It was weak magic, since the zone did not force a person to speak the truth, or even speak, only to compel them into speaking what they know to be true, not the truth. In this situation, she hoped it would be enough to handle whatever Harry would say.

The years before she Fell, Emma was an angel sent to kill half-breeds, mostly half-devils and -demons, but sometimes half-angels that became too powerful and corrupted. It wasn't a pleasant job, but she felt no joy or sadness from it, just as one would go and serve coffee or type an memo. It was a job and she did it with efficiency and effectiveness. Until Terrence.

In 1860, just outside a little western town in the frontier of what would eventually become Arizona, she was sent to kill a half-demon. She was told that this boy would grow up into the worst of the worst, a monster who would terrorize the world. But when she looked in, she saw a sixteen year old boy, praying and worshiping Him. It confused everything that she was told about the situation. The first time since she was forged, she questioned her orders.  
>Watching for weeks, shadowing his every move, she saw nothing that could be labeled evil. No aggression, no hate, no cruelty. This boy would help the poor and homeless, handing out bread he baked himself. He was beaten upon some bullies in the town, then counseled one who had just learned his father had died in a rancher accident. He tended the sick, gave communion to the whores. This boy was perfect. No one was this perfect.<p>

One night, late in the winter, when the sky threatened to snow and still a month or two away from a warm morning, she snuck into the chapel. Emma the Angel was trained for this moment, something so similar to every deletion she had done in the past. But she couldn't until she understood. The boy was kneeling and praying, whispering softly the rosary before his morning chores. He knew she was there even before she spoke, her weapon raised to pin him. They talked, or rather he did, her voice at the time could still deafen. He spoke of how he knew what he was, of his heritage, of what he was meant to be, of who he was meant to be. But he was raised right, taught about Him, and taught how to live a good life. That left him with a choice: to be what is easy or to be what is right. His life was hard, yes, but he would do the right thing, if nothing else for his mother. He did not condemn or condone what she would do, only told her to do as she felt right.

She never spoke of that day, of what she did in that church, of what she did to the town in her rage of her decision. Another Angel approached her, summoned by the act of great evil, ready to kill her. But there was no punishment, no penalty for her choice to destroy the town that willfully accepted the half-demon into their lives. The choice she made still haunted her; not only haunt, but the guilt drove her to doubt her actions, questioning the murder of the boy, for it was murder, no one could convince her otherwise. She had seen enough of the half-devils and demons to know that they needed to die, for their horror they released upon the world could not be allowed. Emma could not allow that to happen. Even if she doubted herself and her actions.

But that doubt was enough to allow her to see Dan, a mortal she had worked with for a time, who straddled dark and light, for what he really was: a man who was trying. That doubt was enough to make her Fall, so she could experience that choice that all mortals had. The Falling she never regretted; what brought her to it did. Now she had a chance to make it up.

Emma Granger walked into her living room, where Harry laid down on the sofa, flipping through cartoon channels. "Harry," she said, stepping in front of the couch and sitting on the table there; it would be easier to read his face as she talked to him if they were almost on the same level. "I need you to tell me about the day you went to the hospital." First things first, she needed him to tell her why she should save them. Yes, Hermione was head over heels about the boy, but that wasn't enough. Harry needed to prove to her and himself that he deserved to be saved. That he was, and could be, a good man.

Dan had taught her that choice mattered, that all mortals had that right of it. She learned that it was okay to punish the guilty, but allow the innocent a chance to be innocent and continue to choose to be so. That didn't mean she couldn't foresee that failure of choice, but she must allow them to make that choice. But for Harry here, she needed to know what his past was like to foresee he would choose, and what he did choose. Hermione had told Dan and her enough about Harry's home life to know that the boy had not had a healthy experience. Emma knew Harry's Hogwart's life, but from the start of this summer to the moment he arrived, she knew nothing. And that was dangerous considering all that had happened.

"Why?" He responded, though his eyes didn't move from the telly. She took the remote from him, smiled softly and turned it off. "What's so special about that time?"

"I need you to tell me, Harry, please," Emma didn't know what else to do. This ritual was intent based, and Emma needed Harry's understanding in order to break her inherent genetic disposition. In order to prove to herself that at least one could be saved. "Start at the beginning."

"One day, when mommy loved daddy-"

"Harry."

"Fine," he said, sitting up. "I woke up in Dudley's second bedroom when I heard someone shuffling down stairs. I figured that it would someone I knew, someone from the wizarding world to come and save me from them." Emma remained quiet, but wished she could have done something to help him. The abused often became abusers, she knew. "I could hear the shuffling of feet, the sounds of pans and pots falling or being thrown about. There was a scuffle then silence. I stayed in Dudley's room, figured that it wasn't my problem, and I wouldn't get blamed for it.

"Silence fell, and a loud scream that shook the house echoed in my ears. It couldn't have been real. Even Voldemort my first year didn't sound like that. The door exploded open, and I felt the shards of wood and metal as they tore my cloths and skin. But I just stood and watched the empty doorway. I watched the darkness swarm about me and then felt nothing.

"When I woke up, its easier to say I hurt than figure out where it didn't. I don't remember what happened; I won't remember being taken down the stairs and nailed to the wall, my back whipped with a curtain cord and then salt being thrown on the wounds. I won't remember the nails being pulled out and shifted around, my body being a pincushion. I won't remember the water being poured over my face, over and over again the wet towel held me down and I couldn't breathe. I won't remember the electric sockets being using to push more current than possible through my body. I won't remember when they crucified me. I won't. But I remember when they stuck the knife in me, laugh as they did it. "

"They, Harry?" Emma asked, taking his hands into hers. He was ice cold; the normal burning boy had lost all color and heat that existed within him. "Who were they? Did the Dursleys do this to you?" Harry shrugged. Either he knew and wasn't saying or he just wanted to forget it, just like everything else. "What did you see?"

Harry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and eyes focused on the ground. "Three figures, and a looming fourth shadow behind all of them, directing their actions. I hung there for a while, you know, just watching them and trying not to breathe. I can see them just before I closed my eyes that last time as Harry Potter."

"Last time?" Emma was worried.

His voice deepened, echoing almost in the silent room. "When I opened them again, I felt stronger and more capable than before. My heart stopped hurting. I pushed forward, pulling the nails out of the wall. They were afraid, and they should have been." Harry smirked a toothful smile. "And they should have been."

Emma paused and almost pulled her hands away. They had read the paper about the destruction at the Dursleys, the three bodies found beyond all recognition, including dental. They had to fly a specialist in just to try to figure it out. She remembered the pictures, the obliterated house and parts of the neighborhood. "I took that knife from my chest and I brought them peace." The bodies were hacked into parts and screams were still etched into the flesh that they could find, the reporter said. "I felt alive again, despite all they did to me." There was sign of any torture other than what was inflicted on the three unknown persons, though the house had burnt to the ground and spread to surrounding houses, sometimes skipping some. "They were alive too, for the final time, when I walked out. Though they probably wish they weren't, but I figured it was fair price."

"Harry, what did you do?"

"I only returned the kindness, tenfold, as was promised me." If Harry was promised power to make the pain stop, to save himself, was he on the path to corruption? Could he even be saved? His voice was back to normal. "It was me, only not me, an Old me I found out, who promised that I will not be harmed by them again. It was right." This was unlike anything she had heard before, though devils were creative. "I woke up in the hospital and helped Mr. Granger. The rest you know." He sat up and rubbed the scar on his chest, breathing heavliy."

"Did they deserved it?" Emma asked.

"Deserved what?" He replied, refusing to look her into the eyes. She could justify retribution, not revenge, the subtle differences were something she learned a long time ago with Dan.

"What you did to them?"

"Did I deserve what was done to me?" He stopped looking around and turned his green suns onto her. It was a question that most abused would answer yes. but the defiance within his eyes said that he wasn't going to answer it. It was a question that she should answer, that she could tell him whether or not the pain and suffering he went through was deserved.  
>"Harry, this isn't-"<p>

"About me? Of course it is, you're here to decide if I live or die. If you kill me or save me." She didn't turn away or answer him. "So what do you want to know? Do you want to know if I feel sorry for them, my torturers, my would-be murders? I don't those bastards deserved anything less, and I could have given them a lot more. It was certainly promised to me." He pulled his hands away, the fire had returned briefly and he burned hot again. "Do you want to know if I enjoyed taking pain onto them? You're bloody right, I did. I enjoyed taking in their screams, returning what they had given me so often. Hell it still brings a smile-"

"I don't give a damn about your past!" She shouted at him, standing over him. He quieted down, and looked almost sheepish. "I don't care about all that had happened or you what you did, Harry," Emma sat down and took his hands again, trying to get him to look into her eyes, so he could see the truth that she spoke. "All of that, is between you and Him, it does not concern me. Remorse and sorrow come with time and distance, and you've had neither, certainly no time to mourn. And its okay to feel as you do, since everything that has happened was mostly directed towards you.

"No, Harry," she said, her thumbs rubbing his hand and trying ot smile now that the time had come to ask what she needed to. She couldn't, the harsh reality was digging into her and the pain of that prevented any jovial action. "I need to know if you will do it again, if you are willing to do it again. I need to know if who you are is that person that night, or the kind gentle soul who my daughter loves deeply."

"Loves?"

"I doubt you'll remember this conversation either way, just that it happened," Emma smirked. "But yes, even if she doesn't know it, I know my daughter pretty well. Don't avoid the question Harry; do you deserve to live?"

"No." There was no hesitation, no waiting, not even a pause to think about the answer. Even he seemed surprised by his word. "I mean-" Tears were forming in his eyes as he tried to think a way out of the mess he had put himself in. But the Words of Power keep him from lying, even to himself. Harry's actions had stained him, as they would any man or woman, and while he may verbally believe he was not sorry for what he had done, within him, he felt the sorrow and pain for taking a life, even if it was deserved. Harry felt, whether through the abuse or his own actions, that he did not deserve to live any more. He cried as he what he felt in his heart came to the forefront and now that he was going to die. That he was going to give up everything all for the irrational moment where he killed his would-be murders.

"No, Harry," Emma replied. "I think you said it all."

"So," He said, sniffling and trying to hold back the tears that that still came. "I'm I going to die?"

"Someday," Emma said, sliding off the table and wrapping her arms around him. He flinched for a moment, solid and unmoving, before he relaxed and let her hug him. "Someday," she repeated. "But not today, and certainly not by my hand." Her own tears fell as Harry cried again, whether out of sorrow that he wasn't being punished or joy that he was going to live, she couldn't tell. His arms moved and held her tight, and she thought she was seeing the first time that Harry Potter actually cried in a very long time.

Author's Note;

This chapter has given me some problems, but its finally finished and at a spot that I feel is good for stopping the story now. Some notes:

The Weasleys are more unique than we can imagine in current fanon

Whats happening to Ron is very important, but even more important is Ginny's effect on him

Hermione's devotion to Harry will remain known only to her and her mother, at least on the truest of levels

I plan on doing one more chapter to deal with the ritual and Harry seeking out some people who he feels owes him, then a time skip will occur, since writing every day that happens sucks, even with everything that is happening

Next chapter will give the answer of who messed with Hermione, why, and how she was even able to survive it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

To call it waking up would be a misnomer, as he didn't really wake or be up. But Albus Dumbledore knew a lucid dream when he experienced it. This was not the case. He had no control over his astral body nor his surroundings, so this was not his dream. That did not explain who's dream it was, and why they were in the Great Hall. Had someone drawn into their dreamscape, and created his chair along with a dark representation of the place where he sat every morning for breakfast?

The room was almost pitch black, save the few candles that were around him, though their light was swallowed by the shadows, eaten so Albus could not see further than a few yards. He was bolted to the chair, metal bars holding him in place on arms and legs.

"Hello, Albus," a voice echoed, "I want to play game."

"Who's there," Albus whispered, screaming his voice but no sound was produced. He could have strained again, but felt that his energy was better suited.

"For the past twenty some odd years, you've been playing as the Leader of Light, hiding in the darkness and manipulating everyone around you for some Greater Good, never once accepting the penalty and pain for your actions." Albus tried to look around, though he could see nothing until spotlights ignited and showed five spikes hanging before him, aimed at his body. "But all Leaders must pay the price of their work, while you, hiding the darkness and controlling everything about you, have not. You've avoided the light and now it is time for what you have done to be brought into it.

"Before you are five swords, ready to pierce you for every truth you hid in the darkness. As long as you stay in the light, you'll find that you have nothing to fear, save the pain of your own actions. But the longer you stay in the darkness, the more it will hurt you. So, Albus, are you ready to come back towards the light you've been hiding from, back towards the suffering you've hidden yourself from? Or will the darkness be your home, where your lies will burn you forever?"

The shackles released and Albus felt himself propelled forward. A path of light, thin but evident, snaked its way across the floor. Some points he could walk normally, but others were too thin, such that he was unsure he could pass through them. Who was this figure, why was it in his dreamscape, and what did they-

A sharp burn came from his hand; Albus pulled away and noticed the darkness slowly taking over the light. A metaphoric punishment? That darkness will consume even the light, unless one always walked in its path? Perhaps, but the pain was real, and he did not wish to feel it again.

He rushed forward, going through the path, taking his time, but trying to make sure he stayed ahead of the darkness. Ahead was a large light spot, the first of five, if he could just get there before the shadows, he would have a break.

Albus stepped into the illuminated section and sighed a breathe of relief. He had to move faster than he had ever before. Despite this being a dream, it was not his own and he could not enhance his movements; he truly was moving at his old age in this realm. What sort of person created his-

"Merlyn's Grace!" Albus felt his left arm light a fire, and looked down to see a sword sticking out of it. If he removed it, he would surely bleed to death. This was what he voice meant by pain of his own actions in his life. The darkness was approaching again, and Albus could shuffle along, his arm now hanging uselessly at his side.

This path was smaller than before, and Albus had to endure some small burns as he touched the sides of the darkness, but he made it to the next large lit area. His arm had some strength left, but why? Why not just cripple him and leave it- Another sharp fire, and now his right arm hung at his side, blood trickling down his hand and dripping on the floor.

He had been punished already, the curse he placed on himself by his own free will. Why would he be punished a second time for the same cause? because it was the only cause that he deserved to be punished for: Harry's long and difficult years in that household, and now he was lost, no one could find him. Remus and Tonks had been searching following leads, one of which ended at a hospital where a boy matching Harry's description was taken with a knife wound and massive blood loss, but that only brought them to a destroyed wall some six stories above the ground floor.

Harry was currently lost and he had no idea where to look. The Weasley's were, for lack of a better term, pulling up their stakes and isolating themselves as a family. The power dynamic had changed, and Arthur was back in charge, more so this time. It was pity, but maybe something would come from it. No, he thought, shaking his head and pushing forward into the next section, I will not fall into that trap again. Albus was done being the manipulator, that part of his life was over. Never again.

This time a smaller path but he was able to sneak through with less burns than before. He ached all over, and his arms were almost nothing more than dead weight. Almost for he could still move them but why? The sharp pain in his left leg was the answer. The light path way was only big enough for him to crawl through now. He was in pain, a great deal and did not know if he could continue on. What did the voice say: either accept the pain the light gives him or burn in the darkness. There wasn't much choice.

He fell to his good knee, his old bones creaking. Albus wasn't prepared for this, though was anyone when their judgment and actions were called into question. Everything he had done was for the Greater Good, at least he told himself. For the past few weeks, he had been wondering if it was really just to keep him in the limelight. The darkness was hotter now, burning him with every little graze and touch. There was no escaping it.

Barely making it to the final stage, Albus fell down, sweat pouring off his body. His robes were heavy and the swords dragged against the ground, pulling him further back. He swore that the darkness would grab the swords and twist them, causing more pain to his tired muscles. Who would do this to him? The why was evident, he thought, but the who? The better question would be, who would have the power to do torture him like this? Voldemort certainly, though not many others he knew would be able to do this, or even know of his crimes. Crimes that he was unsure he deserved forgiveness for, after all, how many orphans had their money taken when they died or were lost to the war, or the chaos that followed afterwards. How many half-breeds were denied because of his inaction?

His finally leg was pierced and Albus was unsure he could reach the final area. He could see the door now, the same great wooden doors that greeted him every morning when he came to the hall for breakfast, where children, so many children, passed through to become great men and women. Too often though, terrible things followed, but was that his fault?

All evil requires is the inaction of a few good men, he thought. Inaction. Inaction was the reason why his school, his haven, was in chaos and so much ahd gone wrong. He allowed it. And if he died here now, he could not try to solve all the mistakes he made.

Pulling himself forward, he belly-crawled his way through the last path, his back and knees burning, the swords scrapping against the ground, twisting in his wounds. Albus wanted to cry out, but he couldn't, the effort in the scream would prevent him from moving forward. He was too old to be able to run the world, and he didn't want to. He didn't even want to run his school any more, just help out the students like he did back when he was teacher. Absolute Power and all...

He reached up for the door, the darkness now crawling over his feet. He bit back the pain and stretched, but the swords held him back; the tips cut grooves into the ground and would move no further. He gasped as the final sword plunged itself into his back, just to the side of his spine and through his stomach. He screamed his pain, but had to push on. No matter, Albus pulled forward, letting the swords in his legs dig even deeper into his flesh, the one in his stomach tearing even further into him, but the handle was far away. The light was dimming and he could feel the shadows now as bugs on his skin, biting and gnawing their way into him.

He thought he had come to grips with his sins, accepted them and move on. But now, as he was eaten by that he could not see, Albus felt he was wrong. He just pushed them aside and never changed. Could he change, he was, after all, a rather old man, and set in his ways to say the least. Did he want to change?

One last chance, he stretch even further, through the darkness to the handle, to the hand. Help, he wanted to whisper, but the darkness found its way into his throat, and all that came out was unhuman cries of anguish and sorrow. He cried for his failures, and wished that he could fix them. To take them back would be to deny that he did wrong, the only way to absolve himself of his sin would be to escape this dreamscape step down as Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock, maybe even the Headmaster. He could no longer be in control. His fingers reached for the hand, his shoulder almost pulled from his socket. Another inch, another centimeter. Just one more, before he was consumed by his darkness.

Something gripped his forearm as the world lost itself in the black.

And Albus Dumbledore knew no more than that.

********

When he awoke, if he could call it waking, he was back in his office, sitting in his chair, holding his favorite tea cup and a bowl of lemon drops in front of him. Harry was smirking, sipping a rather tall glass of a brownish liquid. The world felt like a true dream, one where he was in control, though that did not explain the presence of Harry in it. Rarely did he dream of events that had happened. He preferred the more surreal dreams.

"This is a-"

"As much as I can tell," Harry said. "Probably the only way we can talk right now, given the  
>circumstances." Albus nodded and took another sip. He was still trying to process the pain he felt, was Harry the cause of it? When had he gain- "Though I have to say, you really put yourself through the ringer on that one."<p>

"What?"

"Eloquent as always," He replied, reaching down and finding another bottle of the brown liquid.

"Is that-"

"Whiskey? Yes, I do believe I've earned that right when I had the knife shoved into the my chest." Harry poured himself another drink. He placed it on the desk then drank directly from the bottle.

"But like I said, this is a dream, and there are no real consequences."

"Yes, then that was my doing?" Albus dared not look at the boy, he couldn't meet anothers eyes, his body shook from the pain, and he doubted he could walk in the real world for a few days after that.

"Well, your magic, but yeah," Harry said.

"And you know this because?"

"You told me. Well, not you you, but you nonetheless; said I shouldn't interfere until it was over, until you passed or failed." That it being his magic that caused him the pain made sense then. Few could measure to his level of detail or power, and if his magic had decided that he needed to work through some of his issues, well then it was going to happen. This wasn't the first him his own magic attempted to correct a problem he saw in himself, a problem he refused to face. Before going to bed, he was simply trying to figure out how to use the Weasley's change in power dynamics to the best of the situation. Manipulation was on his mind. THe swords reminded him of Damocles, the mythic figure who sat beneath the threat of death every day due to his own leadership. A leader must pay the price for such, the dangers and the glory that come with it.

Albus would lead, but he refused to pay that price, so his own magic took it out on him.  
>"So I failed then." Shame that he was unable to complete the assignment his magic sent before him. Before, when he was little and his magic did something similar he remembered passing. He was Albus Dumbledore, and he did not fail.<p>

"I doubt that course was designed for succeeding, Professor," Harry replied. "It was only over when you reached for my hand."

"Odd, I'll have to think about it," He said. The trial was over, time now was to deal with why this Dream-Harry was in present. He would spend time thinking about just what that trial was meant to represent and process the pain he was feeling from it. "Now, I take it my magic has more to discuss with me, hence your presence?"

"Me, your magic?" Harry smiled and placed the bottle down. "I serious doubt I could compete  
>with your magic in terms of power." True, this form was nothing compared to what his magic<br>usually took, ie Fawkes. "You are part of my dreamscape, so thus, my subconscious wishes me to deal with all the pain I caused you."

"If that is what you need to think of me in order to answer some questions, then I can work with it." Harry stood up and walked over the bookshelf. "This is your dream after all, I am just a visitor."

"Then-"

"As of roughly ten thirty nine pm, London time, I am undergoing this fantastically painful ritual to bind the devilish power inside of me until there is a time I can control it. Outcome: living." He pulled a book from the shelf and laughed. "Look, the letters don't make sense." Placing the book back, he continued his trek around the room, examining everything. Why was his magic aware of this? "Honestly, I don't know whats going to happen when I wake up tomorrow morning, with my power gone, only that I need to tell you this before we go any further."

"What is that?" Ah, the truth of the matter. At least his subconscious was done playing games on  
>him.<p>

"I know what you did," Harry said. Albus didn't reply. The statement was too vague to even guess at what Harry was refering to. "I felt it when I underwent my first metamofize? Mechamorphispih? Meloncoly? Change. It was as if there was this figure who had attached himself to me, binding and hindering me, holding me back for whatever reason it could think. The figure was such a part of me that it had taken form in my mindscape." Was Harry referring to his curse that he placed on himself? There should have been no residue left within Harry, he was not the target of it. "The only thing that prevented it from taking over me completely was you."

"I don't quite follow." What was his magic trying to do? He was aware of his curse, but this fantasy was something new. In dreams, the subconscious often attempted to inform the dreamer. For a magic user, this informing act was taken over by their own magic and was often more metaphoric if not direct sometimes.

"Recognizing magic traits and auras is something I'm just getting used to, as it was forced upon me rather suddenly. But when you are left with nothing but time and your mind, you tend to do some self-exploring. What I found, besides myself, was your signature, your essence, on a tether connected through the aether. That tether was the only thing preventing the spirit of Voldemort from taking over."

His magic was informing me that Harry might be aware that Voldemort's spirit had invaded him. Dumbledore was still attempting to figure out just what was going on, why had his magic taken this form. Certainly there were better ways of informing him rather than showing him a boy who had he caused so much pain to.

"To be perfectly honest, I'm not your magic and you know that, or are at least aware of it on  
>some level; I'm Harry Potter, dream-explorer extraordinaire." He gave the same smirk that James would the teachers after getting caught pranking some poor-unexpecting kid. "I wanted to talk to you about all that happened to me at the Dursleys', including the night you guys couldn't find me, just as a way of saying heads up and thanks for trying. I appreciate it, I really do; sad thing is, though, that you still haven't checked the one place I know I'd be welcomed right now. But oh well, that's life." Albus knew better than to ask just what he was talking about, especially with the laissez faire attiude that Harry was using.<p>

"What?" This was not the Harry who was distraught after the final trial in the Tri-Wizard  
>tournament. This couldn't be him. Albus could see the boy had changed on the fundamental level, beneath genes in fact. Was Sirius right? Had the boy changed over already?<p>

Harry smiled, grabbed Albus' cup and poured him a heavy drink. "Let me tell you a story about a Boy-Who-Was-Tortured-Then-Freed."

Dreams don't have time, not in the sense that a person can imagine it. Seconds or hours can  
>pass, and one will either notice it or not. Magical dreams are worse, as Albus noticed. So when Harry told the tale of all that had happened to him in the past week and some odd days, of the knife and the fire, of the shadows and the heat, of the running and sleeping, of the pain. A man, certainly not a boy, can not exist on pain alone, but for Harry, he did. He lived through nothing but physical, mental, and spiritual pain and now it was manifesting.<p>

Magic was unique in it being a reflexive and inflexive source of honesty. It responded to a  
>persons' belief system as well as life events. For Albus, his was knowledge and the idea of a<br>perfected mind, the Mage path, as he called it. Wanded ones wanted simplicity and freedom,  
>hence the wide range of spells they have, but lack of true progress and challenge. There were warlocks who once were bound now were free and bent magic to their considerable wills. There were truenamers who had no voice once and now spoke the words of the world. Then there was Harry. His magic, where once capable of wanded because he was told so, had changed so completely, Albus doubted he boy could use wanded spells any more. He was a survivor(a situation that Albus had to admit was one of his own creating), and his magic made it so. The shadows he spoke of were reflexive, responding to his environment and will. They were the physical manifestation of his magic, spawned from the light torture, for what can survive in complete illumination save the darkness. There Harry hide himself and his world, there he was enlightened to use the pun, so it made sense that darkness was his new magic. But above all, Harry would live.<p>

If forced to suffer heat and fire, Albus had no doubt the man would have become Ice and Frost. If he was buried alive, Harry could have been the very Air people breathe. There was still a chance he might be so adaptive if his powers remained as such, if he believed as such. But of everything possible, Harry wanted stability. So his powers, if only to appease their user, would solidify and be with him as they were to give the man comfort in the times of trouble. Harry wanted to know someone that wouldn't betray him. Because, in the end, Albus realized, everyone did save one person in his life. How long until Harry saw a betrayal from her? How long until she hurt him like everyone else had? By keeping secrets, by hiding the truth from him.

"Fascinating, Mr. Potter," Albus said. "But why-"

"I am here to ask you that," Harry said, "You were the one who planted me there, with some abstract goal in mind."

"True," Albus said, "and I have paid for my sin of pride."

Harry shrugged. "I frankly don't care, that's between you and whom ever you believe will take care of you when you close your eyes. No, I want to know why."

Albus nodded but said nothing. He owed Harry that much, especially since there had been a game changer, something to break every rule that had been established up until the point when Harry was attacked. "I believe it is time I told you a story."

Harry was stoic. He said with the earth and just closed his eyes as the events that lead up to his parents death were told to him. He didn't move, Albus thought he barely breathed, and he believed that Harry was trying his hardest not to cry. To have one's life forced down a path due to fate is reprehensible.

"Then I guess there is only one thing to do then," Harry said. There was, it was was time to train the boy and then help him over- "I quit."

"Excuse me," Albus replied.

"I see no reason why I should continue a quest that has already been completed, as far as I am concerned." Harry poured himself another drink, threw the bottle behind him and summoned another from the ether. "If I take you at your word, which I'm not given that the story sounds like a fancy fairy tale for a magic child, then the prophecy was fulfilled the night that Riddle attempted to kill me. I mean, I was already born, he had marked me through actions not necessarily physically, and technically Voldemort isn't alive like you or I. So again, I quit."

"What of Voldemort's return and-"

"That is a new problem which requires a new solution, not some fated excuse to make life easier to deal with." He learned forward. "People believe in prophecies and destiny as a means of lessening the guilt on their souls for doing terrible things. I can not, nor will I, allow myself to be a simple tool to make someone else feel better. I swear that, Albus. I swear, by my life and my love it, to work for no man and make no man work for me."

"You read that from a book."

"I thought it was rather catchy."

"It is considering it was written by an insane capitalist witch."

"She knew magic?"

"No, I was being polite." Dumbledore poured himself another drink, taking Harry's bottle from him. "What of the war, will you help out?"

"If I feel that I am needed," Harry said. "It's not that I don't still have that saving people mentality, I'm just being rather selective of who these days." Albus nodded. Harry looked at his watch and frowned. "Someone's finally home and she's gonna be worried about me. I guess I should wake up."

"Shoudl I have the search continue for you?"

"No, you'll find me when the wards drop, which I think will be rather soon." Albus nodded, and finsihed his drink. At least this is one hangover he wouldn't receive despite how much he was drinking. "Oh," Harry waved his hand at the old man, "Now, we're even." The Boy-Who-Lived was gone, and all he left Albus.

He opened his eyes and saw his ceiling. Albus Dumbledore had returned to the waking world, though completely hungover and sore. Where his magic harmed him he hurt, his legs and arms still numb with pain. Breathing was difficult, both from the wound that he felt was in his stomach and probably the broken ribs that came with it. But the worst of it was the headache Harry gave him. Of all the times he had been drunk, of all the times he had been hung over, never once had it been so bad that the rustle of his bed sheets hurt his head.

There were questions to be answered, namely how the boy had gotten to the point where he was to manipulate dreams in such a way to create a physical effect as powerful as the headache. But the moment, he just wished he could sleep it off.

********

Madame Poppy Pompfrey was from a long line of healers and watchers. She had been at Hogwarts for a long time, almost forty years now, and it was the first time that her duties as a watcher were needed. The pact that kept other magic out of the school had slowly been eroded, and since that foul boy James Potter had past through without her knowledge, she had been careful to ensure that no demon or devil child walked her halls. She recorded the children who had possibilties, careful to ensure that their gifts would not escape where others could take advantage of them.

Dumbledore didn't realize the power that existed within these walls and the chaotic energy had cursed and blessed the place. Ley Lines crossed through the lands, giving an abundance of magical energy to be used, but it was squandered by the likes of wanded ones that the school catered to. Instead, the students who slept here, grew here, and developed here were forced to exist under the chaotic leakage that came from lack of use. Any other place would have found some way to ensure that the energy was not wasted, but here, the fool allowed all the magic and power to bleed into the building, giving it life and ensuring that the occupants were sometimes more magical than others.

The Granger girl was the first. Her second year she had been petrified, though that was really just an excuse. A simple _flesh to stone_ spell, weakened so no visible effects were obvious, and the girl was a pawn to be used. When she was brought to the hospital room, all Pompfrey had to do was act surprised, with promises that she would see to the girl's healthy return. It was enough to appease the headmaster, despite threats of ending the school, thus taking away this one chance to make the girl more pliable to the needs of the many.

The Potter boy, who thankfully bore none of his father's curse, had visited every day, making the ritual difficult to implement. But once the boy had gone in search of that foolish Weasley girl, the chance arose to cast a spell to bind the girl to her.

To have a Learner on her side, who so deeply entrenched within the ocean of knowledge, would have been a powerful boon. The water aspect was just icing on the cake. But now, looking at her mirror to show her the world of Hermione Granger, she was surprised to see it a smoke black. Her homunculus was gone, so was her control of girl. Every year, she brought the girl in, recasting the ritual and cementing the girl to be just a sweet gentle naïve child. The link and grip was there, but slowly slipped each year, something she blamed on the chaotic world of Hogwarts. But now, with the loss of the entire spell, she was unsure.

Over the years, she had collected knowledge of the first six elements to enter the realm of Hogwarts since her tenure began. Sure there were others with affinities, but these six had strong connections that could nurtured and grown into something power and great. Granger was just one of them, though probably the most powerful excluding her element, even if the element was just a metaphor of her magic. The fire was fierce and strong, though she feared he would burn out. At least the earth and light were stable. Shadow however was unique, leading to a bit more research before she concluded she had the correct boy.

Now was the time the Order made it self known to these people, freeing them from their old ways. The tournament approaching would show them just how weak they were, and why the needed the protection of people like her, true mages not the charlatans they presented themselves to be. Her ancestors joined the Order in a way to make amends for following the wanded outs of the true magic. Pompfrey's had fought against Dark Lords and Ladies, against Liches and Daemons, against tyrants and kings. They fought demons and devils, using their unique positive magic to heal and grow warriors for the Light. They had fought the good fight so long, they didn't know anything else.

Like her ancestors, she learned the wanded magic in addition to her own, altering everything to suit the needs of herself and her family. She also watched over the wanded ones, looking for when it was time to return them to true world of magic, a shepard returning a lost sheep. Twice it had almost happened, when the wizarding world brought it self to the bring of exposure, but twice Dumbledore had prevented it, hiding the magic for the betterment of mankind. Now, though, with the resurrection of Voldemort in what she could only assume was a Lich-like form, exposure was upon them again, and this time Dumbledore did nothing except search for that Potter boy. From the rumors of the meetings, the boy had crossed into a world he shouldn't have, summoned a demon into existance and it destroyed him. Served him right, what with the blight his family was on the world. A Cursed line had been removed, and for that she was happy to see.

It was time she removed the useless lump of old that Dumbledore was, and replace it with someone who would do something about the dangers of the world. It was time to show the wanded ones just how powerful she, and others like her was, and should be the ones in charge, ensuring the safety and the progress of society. These fools of men and women who have tried os hard, but it wasn't their fault they were inferior. No, under her hand, and others like her, they would find a era of peace and prosperity that they had never known.

She sat down at her desk, withdrew parchment and began to construct the letter which would announce the return of magic to the wanded ones, as well as the contest of a lifetime.

********

It was early-August now, and Harry's birthday had pasted without pomp or circumstance, something he was grateful for. Instead, he dealt with a mothering Hermione, who tended to his needs after he awoke from his second coma, though it had only lasted a few hours. Emma, what Mrs. Granger preferred him to call her now, had bound the devilish force within him, the only true magical connection left in him was what Dan had called a survivor's instinct. Harry adapted to the environment and his emotion, leaving him with the darkness molding powers he had. While Hermione practiced or painted or played one of those silly games her dad purchased for her, he worked to understand just what he could do.

But as a favor, he did something else.

Harry's mind had changed since Old-Harry took away the Voldemort portion that had  
>locked on him. He couldn't read as well, nor could he feel any magic like the wanded ones. But he knew math(in all its forms oddly), better than he had before. It was this inherent understanding that allowed him to craft spells and rituals and wards unlike any had seen before, Emma said. It was also what brought him to stand outside Hermione's door late one night, holding a few sheets of paper and a frown on his face.<p>

He had discussed with her parents about binding her Learning capabilities, of what he could and couldn't do, a few nights before. The problem that existed was that learning in general was such a strong portion of Hermione's life to have it removed would break her, which was what they were seeing now. But she had no control over it. She couldn't control her desires and her wants; as strong as Harry saw Hermione, this was her weakness. Rather than ask her control it, the easier thing for everyone seemed to be find a way to control the magic for it.

The ritual he created before, the one Emma swore wasn't possible, was the latest project he finished. Boiled down to a single page of math as well as a very basic combination of runes, he presented his theory and what he wanted to do for Hermione, to her. But he never told them the price, even when they asked. He lied to the first people who were nice to him since Hermione decided to become his friend. They wouldn't have to pay anything, he said, only she, and he was sure that it wouldn't be something she missed. After all, hadn't she said that learning was the only thing that mattered to her?

If Harry took her at her word, that nothing else really mattered to her, then this was the best thing he could do for her, even if he paid the price. Magic was weird that way, Hermione would never realize just what she was doing, what price she paid. But everyone else could see, everyone else would experience it and see its effects. To her, nothing would have changed.

Downstairs he heard the grandfather clock chimed. Everyone had gone ot bed, though he and hermione stayed up watching some crazy movie. Dan and Emma at least gave him the courtesy of leaving them alone. They trusted him. And this probably would destroy their trust if they found out exactly what he was doing. Since whatever happened a few years ago, when she was petrified, the Grangers were wary of any mind magic. He wasn't casting mind magic, he assured them, in fact, to Hermione nothing would change save she could be her old self again. Dan stared at him for a bit, examining him as though he were a piece of meat about to be sold on the auction. During one session, he swore that despite binding his devil self, and his warlock magic away, Harry still possessed a silver tongue. Now, when he tried to use it against them, he knew they would look over everythign he side, trying to find what he hide.

They wouldn't see it, because it wasn't against them. They couldn't see someone being so self-sacrificing, especially given his new selfish-attitude. Emma chided Hermione for letting him read Rand the first night he was awake, saying that the world didn't need another capitalist pig who was focused on his own worth, though Harry swore he didn't know who that was. They had him read, struggle through really, a thousand page book and all he got out of it was some catchy slogan. The Grangers had a discussion the night he finished, the day before he finished the ritual, with Hermione making the joke that Harry must be short for Henry. All he said was that he though the man might have the right idea, that if respect the work someone did, then they should be compensated in some manner for said work.

Compensated. Paid. What wouldn't he pay to make Hermione happy? His gold, his firebolt, their friendship? When his mind came up with no answer, he sighed, leaning his head against the door, wanting to slam hi fist against it. That's what he was afraid of. He would give anything just to see her smile again. The music she wrote, however beautiful, was depressing; her paintings evoked the emotions he only associated with the death of his parents, of Cedric. She didn't laugh any more, just moved around the house. This was not his friend. And even if he would have her back for a little while, only to lose her again, even if to herself, then so be. Just to see her smile.

The door opened, and Harry nearly fell forward. Hermione was looking at him, her robe tied tightly around herself, and her arms crossed in from of her chest. "If you're going to still be up this late," she said, "the least you could do is not stand outside my door talking to yourself." She hadn't slept in the past few days, so her eyes were encircled. Hermione had lost some weight too. Not that she stopped eating, but that she stopped caring if she ate. This wasn't his friend; she was dying inside, he could tell. He knew what that felt like.

"Sorry," he said. He wanted to say more, but his words escaped him once again. "I've... I...There might..." He didn't know where to start; how to break it to her without destroying himself in the process. His hand held out the ritual and the runes to her before he could say anything, waiting for her to take them. Harry watched as her hand tentatively took them. He didn't share his findings, his creations with her often, as per her father's request.

"this is," Hermione started, but looking up. Harry nodded, and smiled sadly.

"I can cast it-" She pulled him and locked the door, almost barricading herself in.

"Are you sure, because if i'm reading this correctly-"

"Which you are."

"then this is the first binding ritual that allows the binded to be in control, not the binder. Mum said this was impossible." Hermione sat on her bed, pulling her legs beneath her. The robe gave way and Harry could have sworn he saw skin. He blushed and looked out the window. "In fact, I would be the who sets up the power limits, the stakes, the end close, everything."

Harry nodded and stepped towards the open window. The sky was clear that night, and though the street and house lights blinded the stars, he could see each one, pick them out and determine where they were. They all had stories, he figured. Someone, somewhere, somewhen had told another person about this wonderfully tragic event and how the God or Gods or spirits or whoever decided that event should be remembered. Because to forget what had happened in the past would be worse than remembering the sorrow. No one ever wanted to forget what happened. Hermione was talking behind him, going on about how the ritual worked, the one he created. He let her.

Somewhere, did people tell stories about his parents, about their sacrifice for him. Did people talk about the heroes and their adventures, and the glory that always came, letting the stars become a museum of their actions. Or did they tell stories about how Voldemort and others like him came to power, how they suffered and were allowed to grow into such horrible beings that only death could save others, how the stars reflected mankind's failures back onto themselves. Did the stories reflect the great hope, the strength of man that people lose sight of each day through the evil and terror man inflicts upon himself? Or the sorrow that comes with the decision that, once again, another needs to come before self, for who I am without this person, despite knowing that in the end, the answer would come to that question in the worst way possible. "I can cast it tonight," he said, his eyes turning from the stars. "though there is a price."

"Really?" She sounded like herself again when she spoke of the math and the magic that went into the spell.

"There always is."

"No, I'm mean you'd cast this," she asked. "Right here, now?"

"That's not important," he said. "Hermione, I-"

"No, Harry," she stood up and pressed a finger into his chest. "You listen: The past week has been horrible for me. I have to spend all my time not thinking about thinking, about learning and make sure that I don't even look at a book. Do you know how difficult this has been? My parents don't want me to be myself any more. I can't, or else I'll die."

"I understand that, I'm just-"

"Just what? Trying to talk me out of my one chance at happiness again. I can't sleep without thinking of books, can't move, can't even think without that desire. What do you want me to do?" He wanted to scream at her to grow a backbone, to develop her own will instead of relying on those who wrote something on a page. He wanted to say that this was simply an easy way to solve her solution, that she could have been in control already if she truly wanted. But Harry stood still and let her yell at him. He let her vent and rage against the unfairness that was her life, silently accepting that in the end, he would have to preform a spell he had no desire to.

Hermione paused and stepped back, "Harry?"

"As much as I am afraid of the consequences of this," he said, taking back the ritual, "You are the only person I would do if asked. Though I ask, are you sure, because what price are you willing to pay for that so called normalcy you want?" He had asked himself the exact same thing so many times when he was younger. When he was beaten by Dudley or Vernon. Each morning, even though he stopped praying long before, he would ask himself just what he would give to be normal. He knew that for Hermione, at least now, the answer was the same.

"Anything Harry," she replied, unable to meet his eyes. "Everything."

"Well, I'm not asking for everything, just the only thing," he replied. "Sit down." Hermione didn't ask questions, though he could tell she was confused. He hoped she didn't see the hurt in his eyes, maybe realize just what he was going to pay for this, what she was making them pay. He took out a set of markers and placed them on the bed, along with a small flask and pocket knife. "I'm gonna need you to take off the robe." He blushed, he couldn't help it.

Hermione was beautiful to him, on all levels, but despite how physically attractive she was, he always found her heart and her intelligence to be more so. It wasn't until the Yule Ball that he saw how beautiful her physical body it was, when she became a woman in his eyes. At least, she blushed in return. "if you just wanted me naked, Harry," she said, though slipped off the robe. She wore a thin, green tank top, though her skin was almost as white as his was before. "Want me to remove anything else?"

"Yes, but not at the moment," her pale skinned blushed all the way down her face into her chest. "I just need access to above your heart leading to the metaphoric spot I'm binding."

"A tattoo?"

"No, well," Harry knelt in front of her, his hands gentling touching her left shoulder and pushed the strap down her arm slightly. A spark jumped from his hand into her, though they didn't pull away from each other. "Not like a tattoo, though similar. Its kind under the skin."

"So on my soul," she asked. Harry could feel her magic start to open up and learn from him. He responded with his own, for his protection and hers. He couldn't let her learn just what he was doing, not yet.

"No," Harry took set of gloves from his pocket and slide on them on. "Though I could have, its probably better this way." He took a black marker and started to write in ancient Atlantian above her heart, just above her breast. His hand was steady and the marker slide across her smooth skin that he wished he could touch with his fingers. The gloves prevented it; for if he was able to touch her, to feel the human in her, to feel Hermione as she was and as he would remember her, then he wouldn't have been able to follow through.

The runes changed into inscripts of angelic as he worked his way up her neck. Hermione shifted a bit; Harry paused. "Was that bad?" He shook his head and continued with his work.

"Each language does a different effect, and you will be affected in a few ways." He paused again as Hermione giggled as he drew underneath her chin. "But there should be no pain." Harry took a blue marker and started back at her chest, this time in Norse with a bit of Gaelic in it. Hermione smiled at him as she held her tank top close to her body. "Should being the key word, I hope you realize that you are a guinea pig in this." Harry skipped her neck and brought the marker eye level. "Close your eyes, this is going to help buffer you against some of the influx you will feel."

"Okay," she said softly; for a brief moment, Harry met her eyes and could have sworn she was his old Hermione again, the girl who saved him when he needed it the most. Now he was returning the favor, even if he disagreed. "You mentioned price?"

"I thought you said it didn't matter," he replied. "Don't move. And as for that price, it's simple: what matters more than learning." Hermione's brow furrowed for a moment, and harry pushed it up with his middle finger before he continued to draw on her, changing to some eldritch runes that he shouldn't know, that he slipped in past Emma.

"Will it be worth it?"

Harry chuckled and grabbed a red pen. He started with devilish, transferred to axoimatic, and finished with some anarchic symbols and runes around her forehead. "Tell me in a couple of months, 'mione," he said.

"Don't call me that," she replied, a smile back on her face. Harry crawled around her back and repeated the process of covering her skin with markers. "I feel like we're children again, and you somehow persuaded me to let you draw all over me. When you're done, it'll be my turn. As if we nevre had to worry about magic or pain or fear or anything as dangerous." Harry smiled sadly at the thought of him as a child. He had blocked out the memories, though he could still feel them at the edges of his darkness. "Do you think we could have ever been as innocent as that?"

"You, certainly. But me," He added purple to the mix, connecting some runes with others. "I don't think I could ever been like that." He was surprised at how she looked from behind. He parted her hair around her shoulders and lightly touched the marker across her back, just above the line that tank top ended to edge of her hair line. He marveled and wished he could run his fingers through her hair, though doubted he'd ever get the chance.

"I wish it didn't have to be like this," she said.

"Like what?"

"I wish I could have control it," Hermione's shoulders slumped. "I wish that I wasn't weak." Harry said nothing because he agreed. She was weak to choose a path that was so easy, hiding away from the problem versus facing it head on. He couldn't do so, not after facing death numerous times, facing a fate worse than death, facing something that nearly destroyed him: himself. She was scared of herself, of what she was, and that made her weak in his eyes.

But he didn't stop caring. She was Hermione, his strength, after all. So in her moment of weakness, he would be hers. If this was her decision, then he would be there right beside her all the way. "I wish... I wish this wasn't the only way that I could handle it."

"This is your choice after all," he said, one last chance for this to be a game to them, one where he just covered her in markers and then it'd be her turn to cover him. One last chance to make the right choice as far as he was concerned. "We can find other ways."

"Do you think there are other ways?" yes, he wanted to say. Yes wanted to scream and then hold her tight. Did she not even realize what she would pay? He could guess, if nothing else by her actions. But Harry said nothing. "Don't answer that. I honestly don't think I could handle waiting. For the first time, since I've learned about my curse, I've felt at peace, it doesn't feel like I'm holding back the ocean with just one little finger, that the torrent will end when I do this. I think my magic is telling me I've made the right choice." Harry nodded, put his markers down and hugged her from behind. "Harry?"

"Remember, that in the end," he said, holding back his tears, "You will always find my door open."

"Harry?" She sounded scared but he couldn't look at her. Her hands gripped his arms.

Harry pulled away, smiled, and crawled to her side. With a gentle push, he laid her down. "Will it hurt?" she asked.

He shook his head no. "It'll be like a dream. And when you wake up, you'll be in your bed and can believe anything you want."

"is it reversible?"

"Yes, just like changing a pair of pants." Another giggle; he just returned a sad smile. "Sleep well Mione."

"Night, Harry, and don't call me that." Harry snapped his fingers, and Hermione slowly closed her eyes, falling back into a deep sleep.

In a moment, the ritual would begin. But Harry wanted to remember her as she was. As this was probably the last time they would be as close as this. He wanted his chance to mourn their friendship, and whatever else was possible. Maybe she would decide to change and deal with the powers, but that would changing the current of the ocean, something Harry knew nothing about.

Authors Notes: BAHHHHH - too long, my bad. One section just kicked my ass until recently, so at least I've completed it before the month ended.  
>A couple things:<br>- I was torn over Harry's portions here, mostly because I feel like i'm treading out of character actions here. I think i'm giving enough reasons as to why this may be, but still, I'm worried that it might not seem reasonable.  
>- A fourth and final force has been introduced and I think I'm done with making changes to canon... we'll see if i hold true to that.<br>- Also, if anyone is interested in beta, pls email or pst me. If there are any mistakes I'm sorry, I'll try to correct them in the next update.  
>There are probably a few easter eggs in here, but I don't remember them at the moment.<p> 


End file.
